


Who Will Save You Now

by hedahawkeye



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Astronauts, F/F, Mars, NASA, space, the martian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 72,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9345851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedahawkeye/pseuds/hedahawkeye
Summary: The Ares 3 crew spends five sols on Mars as planned. On Sol 6, disaster strikes and Clarke is left behind, presumed dead.What do you do when you're stranded a hundred million miles from home?





	1. Chapter 1

**Mars: Sol 6**

Clarke slept peacefully in her bunk. She'd been far more active the day before than at any time in the previous couple of months onboard the Ark, and so she slept deeper and better than she had since they'd left Earth.

"Crew, up and at 'em!" Lexa shouted, her voice breaking through a particularly vivid dream about an hour-long soak in a real, actual tub. "It's another day on Mars, folks!"

A chorus of groans echoed from the bunks. You could take the astronaut off of Earth and give them forty minutes more sleep, but that sure as hell didn't mean you'd turn them into a morning person.

Anya was first out of her bunk. The Marine could match Lexa's Army-trained schedule easily. "Morning, Commander."

Raven sat up, but didn't move to push off her blankets. The software engineer had never been very good at mornings.

Lincoln rolled from his bunk slowly, sparing a glance at his watch before silently pulling on his jumpsuit and smoothing down the front. He lumbered towards the kitchen area and started rifling through the dehydrated packs.

Clarke turned on her side and tugged a pillow over her head. "Noisy people go 'way," she mumbled.

"Blake!" Anya called out, shaking the mission's doctor. "Rise and shine, kid!"

"Yeah, sure," Octavia said blearily, rubbing at her eyes.

Raven's ankle got tangled up in her sheets, and she hit the floor with a thud.

Ripping the pillow from Clarke's grasp, Lexa leaned over her ear and yelled "Get a move on, Griffin!"

"Uncle Sam chipped in a cool hundred grand for every second we're here," Anya commented as she wandered back over, sipping at a mug of coffee.

"Bad woman take pillow," Clarke groaned, burying her face in her hammock.

"Commander's tipped 200-pound men out of bunks back on Earth. Really want to see what she can do in 0.4g?"

Clarke shook her head and sat up. "No thanks."

As the crew crowded around the rations cupboard, Lexa took a seat at the communications setup to check on overnight messages from Houston.

Clarke dragged her feet on her way to join the group, and thrust out a hand that Octavia shoved a breakfast into. "'Eggs'?" she groaned, tearing the pack open anyway.

"Like there's any difference." Raven slung an arm around her shoulder and caught the pack Octavia tossed her way. "I swear they just fill them all with the same weird mush and then label them differently just to screw with us."

Clarke grunted an affirmation and let her eyes slip back shut as she moved her hand methodically, _pack, mouth, repeat_. When she opened them again, they met Lexa's piercing gaze from across the bay. If she weren't so tired, Clarke would have sworn the commander's cheeks were stained red before she glanced back to the computer.

"Mission updates are in," Lexa said. "Satellites are showing an incoming storm, but we have time for some surface ops before it lands, so Lincoln and Anya will be with me outside. Reyes, you're on weather reports. Griffin, your soil experiments are bumped up to today. Blake, you'll be running the samples we picked up yesterday."

"It wise to go out with a storm coming?" Anya asked.

"Houston gave us the all clear," Lexa said.

"I'm with Anya," Lincoln commented. "Seems unnecessarily dangerous."

"Coming to Mars was unnecessarily dangerous," Lexa replied. "It's the cost of knowledge." She turned back to her computer.

"Be careful," Raven said sharply, spinning a coffee mug restlessly in her hands. "I request a mission abort, you come back in."

"Aye aye, Captain," Anya chuckled, winking at the engineer. "You're the boss."

"No, I'm the boss," Lexa called out distractedly from where she'd kept half an ear trained on the conversation. Her crew rewarded her with a chorus of half-hearted boos before they dispersed.

\--

Three figures stood next to the solar panel array, looking nearly identical thanks to their bulky suits. The only thing distinguishing Lincoln from the two Americans was the EU flag on his shoulder, where their suits bore the Stars and Stripes. They gazed east, to where the darkness on the horizon billowed and waved in the rising sun.

"It's coming on too fast," Lincoln commented. "That's much closer than Command reported."

"We're good for time," Lexa replied. "Focus. This EVA's for chemical analysis. You're the chemist, tell us what we need to dig."

"We're going down 30 centimeters to collect soil samples that are at least 100 grams."

"Alright. Stay within a hundred metres of the Habitat in case the storm blows in and we need to get to cover." Anya and Lincoln gave her twin nods from behind their mirrored facemasks before they split up.

They moved to digging and bagging samples, occasionally standing and looking towards the storm before turning back to their task. "How many do you need, Lincoln?" Anya questioned during one of those moments, as she rubbed a smudge of dirt off her helmet.

"At least seven."

"I've got four," Anya said.

"Five," Lexa replies, "but if the Marines can't keep up I'm sure I can do a couple of yours, too."

"Oh, that's how it is? I'll show you."

"No, you won't," came Raven's voice over the radio. "Reyes here, storm's been upped to 'severe', it'll be here in under fifteen minutes."

"Back to base," Lexa said, and no complaints came as they spared a glance to the east, and the looming storm.

\--

The Hab rocked as the storm hit, only minutes after the trio had trooped back through the airlocks. The crew donned their EVA suits and crowded together in the centre of the base, eyes trained on Raven and her computer.

"Status?" Lexa said.

"Winds are over 100 kph, gusts up to 125."

"Fuck me," Clarke mumbled under her breath, "hold on tight, Toto. What's the abort speed?"

"It hits 150 kph and we've got to clear the ground," Anya said, "much above that and the Mars Ascent Vehicle is likely to tip. Tip too far and…" she trailed off.

"And we're fucked," Octavia supplied.

"Where are we in the body of the storm?" Lexa asked.

"On the edge," Raven supplied without looking up from her screen. "It's about to get a lot worse. Probably way upwards of 150 kph."

"Alright." Lexa scanned the group and sighed. "Prep for mission abort. We'll head to the MAV and sit tight. Then we'll be able to launch if we have to."

"We're ditching already? We've only been here six days!" Clarke complained.

Lexa clapped her on the shoulder. "Hope for the best, prep for the worst. Let's move. Buddy system. Reyes and Anya, Blake and Lincoln, me and Griffin. Regroup outside the airlock."

When they stepped into the airlock, Clarke glanced up at Lexa and tapped the side of her helmet before switching over to a private comms link. "Hey, you okay?"

"Perfect," Lexa replied, swallowing hard. "Great. Never been better. Stay on the open channel, Griffin."

They rejoined the rest of the crew and Lexa drew herself up, tall and strong, shoulders back. "Visibility is low, so it's going to be tough going. If you get off track, home in on my suit's telemetry, and watch out for the wind, we're in the lee of the Hab right now but once we get out it's going to get a lot rougher, so be prepared."

They pressed forward through the gale, stumbling against the winds and towards the MAV.

"Hey, what if we shored it up?" Clarke gasped. She was still unused to the weight of the suit on her limbs, even with the low gravity.

"How?"

"There's a ton of cables for the solar array. The rovers aren't gonna blink with these winds, so we anchor the MAV to them and-"

Wreckage crashed into Clarke, carrying her off in the wind.

"Griffin!" Lexa shouted. "Griffin! Report!"

"What happened?" Anya asked.

"Something hit her! Griffin, report!"

No reply.

"Griffin, _report_ ," Lexa repeated.

Silence.

" _Clarke_."

"She's offline," Raven reported, "I can't get a read on her!"

"Commander, before we lost her, her decompression alarm went off," Octavia stated.

" _Shit_ _!_ " Lexa yelled. "We need to find her! She was blown due west."

"We'll get her," Lincoln stated, slow and careful.

"Anya, get in the MAV, get it prepped. Everyone else, home in on me."

"Octavia," Lincoln said, pushing through the wind, "How long can a person survive decompression?"

"Less-" Emotion choked her voice. "Less than a minute."

The crew crowded around Lexa. "Okay, fan into a line, walk west. Small, sweeping steps. She's most likely prone, we don't want to step over her. Report if you hit something."

They stayed in sight of one another and trudged forward through the chaos.

Anya dove into the MAV airlock and forced the seal closed against the wind with a pained grunt. The second it pressurized she stripped off her suit and climbed up to the pilot's couch, booting up the system.

She grabbed the emergency launch booklet in one hand and flicked switches across the console with the other, running down the list while the systems reported as active. One in particular stood out.

"Commander," she radioed. "MAV's on a 7 degree tilt, reach 12.3 and it's over."

"Copy that," Lexa said.

"Reyes," Octavia said, checking the computer on her arm, "Griffin's bio-monitor sent me data before it went offline, but it just says 'Bad Packet'."

"I got it," Raven said. "Didn't finish transmitting. Some missing data, computer can't read it. Give me a second."

"Commander," Anya said. "Houston came in with the abort order. We're scrubbed, we've gotta go."

"Understood."

"They sent that four and a half minutes ago, with data from nine minutes ago."

" _Understood_ , Anya," Lexa spat. "Continue prepping."

"Copy."

"Blake," Raven said, "I've got the data. Blood pressure 0, pulse rate 0, temperature 36.2. That's all I got."

"Copy," Octavia said morosely.

Silence fell on the channel, no one willing to glance towards Lexa. They continued shuffling forward, praying for a miracle.

"Temperature normal?" Lexa said finally, her voice small against the storm, but holding a hint of hope.

"It takes a while for the-" Octavia murmured. "It takes a while to cool."

"Commander," Anya said, "Tilt's getting worse now, 10.5, gusts pushing it to 11."

"Copy. You set for launch?"

"Affirmative, ready for launch at any time."

"If it tips, can you launch it before it flips completely?"

"Uhm," Anya hadn't seen that one coming. "Affirmative. I'd go manual, full throttle, nose up and return to pre-programmed ascent."

"Copy," Lexa said. "You three, home in on Anya, get to the MAV. Prep for launch."

"What about you, Commander?" Octavia asked.

"I'll keep searching. Get a move on. Anya, you start to tip, you launch."

"I'm not going to leave you behind."

"I just ordered you to," she gritted out. "The rest of you, get to the MAV."

They reluctantly pulled away, pushing through the wind toward the ship.

Lexa shuffled on, taking a moment to grab a pair of drill bits she'd added to her equipment that morning in anticipation of geological sampling off her back. She held the metre long bits to her sides, dragging them along the ground as she walked.

After a twenty-five metre walk, she shifted a couple metres to the side and turned back, trying to hold a straight path despite the gusting wind and lack of visual references. She fought to push her feet through the sand that piled up at each step, and soldiered on.

The trio shoved into the MAV airlock, a tight squeeze as it was designed to hold two. As it equalized, Lexa's voice came in over the radio, heavy with desperation.

"Reyes, could the IR see her?"

"Negative, wouldn't work any better than sunlight," Raven replied.

"She's a fucking geology nerd," Octavia commented as she pulled her helmet off and stepped into the MAV. "She knows that wouldn't work."

"She's desperate," Anya called down from her couch. "Give her a break."

"We need to strap in," Lincoln said, climbing up.

"I don't want to leave without-"

"Neither do we," Raven replied, squeezing Octavia's shoulder, "but it's Commander's orders."

"Commander, we're at 11.6," Anya radioed. "One big gust and we're going over."

"Proximity radar," she grunted. "Could it find her suit?"

"Negative, it was designed to find the Ark in orbit, not the metal in one space suit."

"Try it. _Please_ ," Lexa begged.

“Commander,” Anya said, fiddling anxiously with her headset. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Grif-… Clarke’s dead.”

“Copy,” Lexa replied. “Reyes, try the radar.”

“Roger.”

Raven brought the radar online. Octavia glared across the bay at Anya. “What’s the matter with you?”

“My friend just died," Anya snapped. "And I don’t want my Commander to die too.”

Raven gave her a stern look before turning back to the radar. "Negative contact."

"Nothing? You're positive?" Lexa asked.

"Can't even see the Hab. It's this fucking sandstorm, and even if it wasn't, there's not enough metal - Shit!"

"Strap in!" Anya yelled. "We're tipping!"

The MAV creaked ominously as it tipped faster and faster with every moment.

"Thirteen degrees," Raven called from her couch.

"Commander, she's gone," Lincoln said.

"I can't leave her!"

"Lexa, you need to-" Anya started.

"She'd look for us!"

"If we go over, we're not coming back," Anya said calmly. "32 metric tons, including fuel. We hit the ground, there'll be structural damage to this entire ship. We'll never get it space-worthy again."

"You can't leave her, too," Octavia said. "You can't."

"I've got one more trick up my sleeves, but if that doesn't work then I'm following her orders."

She flipped through the emergency manual, then brought the Orbital Maneuvering System online and fired a sustained burn from the nosecone array. The thrusters fought valiantly against the slow tilt of the ship.

"You shoot the OMS?" Lincoln asked. "It's gonna be a rough ride up with the aerodynamic caps ejected."

"Better rough ride than no ride," she gritted out, maintaining the burn. "Reyes, where are we with the tilt?"

"Thirteen degrees, seems to be holding," she reported.

"What are you doing?" Lexa radioed. "Respond."

"Standby," Anya replied."

"12.9," Raven said.

"It's working."

"For now," Anya commented. "I don't know how long the fuel will last."

"12.8."

"OMS fuel at 60%," Octavia chipped in. "How much do you need to dock with the Ark?"

"Ten percent if I don't fuck up," Anya supplied, adjusting the thrust. "And I don't fuck up."

"12.6. We're tipping back up."

"Or the storm's calming down a bit. Fuel's at 45%."

"Watch you don't damage the vents," Lincoln cautioned. "It wasn't made to run this long."

"I know," Anya said. "I can do without them if need be."

"Okay, we're under 12.3," Raven said.

"Cutting off OMS," Anya stated.

"Still tipping. 11.6, 11.5, holding."

"OMS fuel at 22%," Octavia supplied.

"I can see, Blake. I can work with that."

"Commander," Octavia radioed, "you need to get to the ship."

"Affirmative," Anya radioed, voice soft. "She's gone, Lex. Clarke's gone."

The silence was deafening as they waited on her reply.

Finally, Lexa's voice cut through. "Understood. Returning to MAV."

Octavia turned her head to glance at Clarke's empty couch, meeting Raven's eyes as the engineer did the same. She swallowed around a lump in her throat.

Anya ran a diagnostic on the nosecone thrusters, finding them no longer safe for use. She logged the malfunction as the airlock hissed.

Lexa removed her suit and wordlessly climbed into the flight cabin, strapping in to her couch. Her face was a frozen mask, her eyes red as she refused to meet the glances from her crew.

Anya broke the silence.

"Still at pilot release," she murmured. "Ready for launch."

Lexa closed her eyes and nodded.

"I'm sorry, Lex, I need verbal confirmation to-"

"Launch," she forced out, her voice hoarse.

"Confirmed." She activated the sequence.

The retainer clamps ejected and fell to the ground, followed seconds later by the preignition pyros firing and igniting the main engines. The MAV lurched upwards.

The ship gained momentum slowly, the ascent software automatically adjusting as the wind attempted to blow it off course. As the engines burned through the fuel, the ship dropped weight and the acceleration quickened exponentially, reaching maximum soon after.

As the MAV pushed towards orbit, the open OMS ports took their toll, shaking the ship violently and jolting the crew in their seats. Anya and the ascent software fought to keep the ship on target, and eventually the turbulence tapered off and fell to nothing as the atmosphere thinned.

The first stage completed, and the crew experienced weightlessness for a few moments before being slammed back into the seats as the second stage began. The spent first stage plummeted away to crash on the dusty surface below.

The second stage drove the MAV higher into low orbit, the trip much smoother and shorter. Finally, the engines cut out, and an oppressive silence replaced the previous chaos.

"Main engines shutdown," Anya said. "Ascent time of 8 minutes and 14 seconds. We're on course for Ark intercept."

Under normal circumstances, an incident-free launch would have been hailed with cheers and celebration.

This one earned silence only broken by a choked sob from Lexa.


	2. Chapter 2

** Log Entry: Sol 6 **

I'm fucked.

That's my professional opinion.

100% fucked.

** Log Entry: Sol 6 (cont'd) **

My mom already lost my dad to space, and now they're going to tell her I'm dead too.

I'm so sorry. Please don't pin this on my team.

** Log Entry: Sol 6 (cont'd) **

To whoever's reading this, whenever you find it, just for the record, I didn't die on Sol 6. My crew thought I did, and I can't blame them for that. It's in no way their fault that I was left behind.

I mean, I'm probably gonna end up with a Wikipedia page that says I'm the first human to die on Mars, and it'll probably be right. I'm likely gonna die here. Just not on Sol 6 like everyone thinks.

** Log Entry: Sol 6 (cont'd) **

Okay, I threw a nice fit in the corner of the Hab and now I think I'm ready to try to explain what happened.

Let's see, I guess I should begin with the Ares program. Manned missions to Mars, humanity landing on another planet, all that bullshit. I'm part of Ares 3, or, more precisely, I _was_.

Commander Lexa Callaghan is, was, our fearless leader. Geology nerd and logistics specialist, with a frankly shitty taste in music and a head for crosswords. Woman can blow through a Saturday NYT puzzle like it's nobody's business, it's gotta be the most intimidating thing about her. Which actually isn't saying much. The Commander throws up this shell to the media of the hardass Army officer, but we know better. She's a huge softie, and that's really what endeared me to her in the first place.

Dammit, I was really looking forward to asking her out when we got back to Earth.

Shit like DADT got repealed years back, but with NASA you've got a code more along the lines of something we've dubbed DYFD. Otherwise known as _Don't You Fucking Dare_. Space missions are hard enough as it is, without throwing interpersonal relationships among astronauts into the mix. When you're stuck on the Ark for a year, the last thing you want is fucked up dynamics among the crew. Dangerous wouldn't even come close to describing it.

Well, I guess if someone finds this log before the crew dies of old age, she'll know how I feel about her. I feel a lot, Lex. And if you're reading this, it wasn't your fault. You did what you had to, and if I had been in your position I would've done the same thing. It's not your fault, I don't blame you, and I'm glad you made it home.

Though I could really use some company right now.

So, we had the Commander in charge of the mission, and little old me was the lowest ranking member of the team. The only way I'd ever be in command is if I were the only one left.

And, well, what d'you know? I'm in command.

** Log Entry: Sol 6 (cont'd) **

I guess that if these logs could possibly go public sometime in the future, I should probably give you readers (hey!) a rundown of the Ares program.

We shuttle up into orbit like normal (because shuttling up into orbit is 'normal' and not 'super-fucking-cool-I-can't-believe-I'm-an-astronaut') and dock on the Ark. That's the whopper of a ship all of the Ares missions use to get to and from Mars. It's the only one NASA built, on account of it being stupid expensive, so the suits always look understandably nervous when Raven, our software and mechanical engineering specialist, jokes about pimping our ride.

Once we're up on the Ark there's another four unmanned missions to shuttle up fuel, equipment and supplies while we're busy getting our shit together. After that, well, on to Mars. Pretty fucking slowly to begin with.

The Ark's powered by these pretty sweet ion engines, powered by a nuclear reactor. They shoot argon out the back super fucking fast and give us a tiny bit of acceleration. And constant tiny amounts of acceleration add up really quickly; it's amazing how fast you can get going with 'em.

It took us 124 days from Earth to Mars, and I could tell you a hell of a lot of stories about the fun we had in that time, but right now I'm not exactly in the mood. Suffice it to say we all got here alive and in one piece.

Once we reached Mars orbit, we used the Mars descent vehicle (or MDV) to get us the last miles down to the surface. It's for all intents and purposes a tin can, with a couple thrusters and parachutes attached to get us down without killing us. Those twenty-odd minutes were the worst of my life, something I shared with the majority of the crew. Except for fucking Anya. Our pilot spent the entire way down smiling. Asshole.

Now, the things that makes the Ares missions possible is time. A hell of a lot of time. We need all our gear to be on Mars before we get there, and we can't set off until it's been confirmed everything arrived safely. So fourteen unmanned missions jet off before we ever leave Earth, taking about three years start to finish for everything to get there. Hell, there were Ares 3 supplies on their way to Mars before the Ares 2 crew had even gotten home.

The most important equipment to land on Mars before the crew did was a nice little ship called the MAV. The Mars ascent vehicle. It's the guy that's supposed to get us back to the Ark after our surface ops are finished, so if anything were wrong with it we'd bypass Mars entirely and head on back home. It spent a couple lonely years on Mars surface waiting for us to come be its friends, and if it can do it, then I can do it. Right?

The MAV is a pretty cool piece of work. Turns out, there's these neat chemical reactions made possible by Mars' atmosphere, such that for every kilogram of hydrogen you shuttle up, you can make 13 kilos of fuel. Of course, it's a super slow process, hence it arriving a couple years before us. By the time we got here, it was all gassed up and ready to go.

So you can imagine my disappointment when I woke up and discovered that the MAV was gone.

** Log Entry: Sol 6 (cont'd) **

It was a frankly ridiculous set of events that led to me almost dying, and an even more ridiculous set that led to me surviving.

Mars has storms, same as Earth, but since it's a pretty arid planet, theirs tend to be sandstorms. Our surface equipment is designed to handle wind with gusts reaching 150 kph. So Houston got pretty fucking nervous when the wind started reaching 175 kph and up. Lexa had the forethought to order us to suit up, and we huddled in the middle of the Hab in case it popped like the giant bubble it is. Turns out it wasn't the Hab we shoulda been so worried about.

The MAV's a spaceship, with a hell of a lot of delicate parts. Where the MDV just needs to drop a couple hundred miles and land relatively gently, the MAV's gotta combat Mars' gravity, burst out of the atmosphere and adjust its course until it docks safely with the Ark. There's a lot of technology on board to accomplish all of that, and while it can put up with storms to a certain extent, it can't just be blasted with sand and grit forever. Something's gotta give. So an hour and a half later, the order came in for us to abort. No one was happy about scrubbing a month-long mission after six days, least of all me. We all wanted more time.

Looks like I got my wish.

If the MAV had taken anymore punishment, we all would've been stranded, so we had to go out in the storm and fight our way from the Hab to the MAV. It was going to be dangerous as hell, but it was the only choice we had.

Everyone made it out there but me.

I don't know if I mentioned it yet, but I can't get through on comms to the Ark or NASA right now and there's a pretty good reason for that. Our main communications dish did everything in its power to try and kill me.

The thing acted like a parachute and got ripped free of its moorings and carried away on the wind. It bulldozed through the reception antenna array. Then one of those antennae, which we so painstakingly laid down a couple days ago, slammed into my side end first. It ripped through my suit like a bullet through butter, and I felt the worst pain of my life (even worse than landing in the MDV) as it tore open my side. Then the air was ripped out of my lungs even more painfully than the wound as the pressure of my suit plunged.

And then Lexa threw her hand out towards me, her scream echoing hollowly over the communications channel, and then there was darkness.

**Log Entry: Sol 6 (cont'd)**

After all that shit, you can imagine how much of a shock it was to me that I didn't wake up dead.

I woke to the oxygen alarm in my suit blaring out in my ear. A fucking obnoxious beeping that roused me from a profound desire to just fucking die already. I was face down, buried in sand. I dug myself out to a clear, calm day, almost like Mars was apologizing for going to shit.

The antenna had punched through my suit and punctured my side, but apparently my pelvic bone was just that bit too much for it. So there was only one hole in the suit (plus that hole in me, but I could deal with that later).

I'd been blasted down a pretty steep hill and landed on my front, which had been a pretty lucky circumstance, as it turns out. The antenna had been forced at an angle and twisted up the hole in my suit, forming a weak seal. Then, as the pretty fucking huge amounts of blood from my wound seeped out towards the hole, the water in it evaporated and left this gunky mess behind. More and more of that ended up sealing the gaps in the hole and reduced the air leak to something the tech in my suit could more easily manage.

Let me tell you, the engineers that threw together our mission suits did an admirable job of it. Once my suit registered the drop in pressure, it flooded air from my nitrogen tank to try and equalize it. After the blood gunk had made the leak a bit more manageable, it only had to add in a little bit of air to replace what I lost.

I'm not really sure how long I was out for, but after a while the CO2 absorbers in the suit were all used up. That's pretty much the only thing we haven't worked out how to deal with yet, that limiting factor of life support. It's not so much about how much O2 you strap on and carry with you, but how much CO2 you can pull back out. Too much of that and you'll just suffocate slowly, even if you keep pumping O2 into your mask. In the Hab we've got this machine called the Oxygenator that can split up CO2 molecules and give back the O2. In the suits, we're not quite so lucky. They've gotta be portable, so they just use a chemical absorption process with expendable filters. After long enough, those become nothing more than dead weight.

Like I said, we've got geniuses back at NASA, so once my suit saw it was chock full of CO2, it moved on to emergency mode. Since it couldn't deal with the CO2 in house, it just started venting it directly into the atmosphere and backfilling the space left behind with nitrogen. With all the use it was putting that tank to, my nitrogen supply ran out pretty fucking quickly. All that I had left was O2.

Its only priority was keeping me alive, so my suit started pumping in pure O2. Too much oxygen is just as bad for you as not enough oxygen, so I was set on a path for a fucking ironic death for a girl with a leaky spacesuit.

It was the high-oxygen alerts that woke me up.

Luckily, I'd been trained for this. We spent countless hours on emergency drills. I reached up to my helmet to grab a breach kit, which is a fancy name for something that's little more than a funnel with a valve on one side and the stickiest glue on Earth on the other. You slap the glue-end down, and the valve vents out air as it dries, then you close it. Like I said, I've done this drill more times than I care to count, but never like this. Never in unimaginable pain, in the middle of a Martian desert, with the creeping knowledge that I'd die if I didn't do this correctly. No pressure.

The trickiest bit had to be that pesky antenna buried in my hip. I couldn't throw the seal on around it, so I gritted my teeth and tore it out as quickly as I could. I cursed like a sailor, but I didn't fucking cry, a fact I'm pretty fucking proud of, if I do say so myself. The pressure drop sent me reeling, and the agony that lanced through my side wasn't much better, but I still managed to get the breach kit over the hole in my suit and get it sealed. It held, and my suit adjusted in response to the fluctuations in pressure. A quick glance at the computer on my arm told me the suit was at 85%, a far cry from the 21% O2 of Earth's atmosphere. I was alive, but I wasn't going to stay that way for very long if I didn't deal with that issue right away.

I crawled back up the hill towards the Hab. When I came back over the rise, I shouted and fist-pumped in excitement at the sight of the bubble of the Hab rising out of the sand. It took another second for despair to drive that elation straight out of my head. The MAV was gone.

I knew right then that I was completely and utterly _fucked_. But, I could die in about twenty minutes in my over-oxygenated spacesuit, or I could fight for survival in that beautiful bubble. So I limped back to the Hab and fell through the airlock. I tore my helmet off the second the port equalized and took a nice deep breath of air.

I stripped the suit off as I entered the Hab and took a nice long look at the messy wound on my hip. It was gonna need a couple stitches thrown into it, but luckily we've all been trained for basic medical procedures. I shot myself up with a local anesthetic, cleaned the wound out as best I could, nine stitches and done. I scrounged up a saline bag and antibiotics and stuck the needle in the crook of my elbow, and that's about as good as it was gonna get.

I tried firing up the communications array after I finished (gotta have a little hope, guys), but of course there was no signal. Remember how that satellite dish broke off, invited its friends the reception antennae, and started all this shit? Yeah. You're probably wondering why NASA didn't set us up with secondary and tertiary comms. Well, they did, but they're not working all that well, considering they rely on the MAV to boost their signal. Doesn't really function unless the MAV's still around.

I've got no way to talk to the Ark. With enough time, I could probably hunt down that asshole satellite dish and rig up some repairs, but that'd take weeks, if not months, and that'd be too late.

Protocol in a mission abort is to leave orbit within 24 hours, and Lexa Callaghan would be the last person to defy Houston's orders. Orbital dynamics make the trip shorter the earlier you leave, and there'd be no reason to wait around and make the trip longer if they thought I was dead.

I sifted through my suit to find that the antenna had torn straight through my bio-monitor. On our EVAs, we network our suits so we can all see each other's readings. Makes it easier to figure out what's going on if someone goes down. My crew would've seen my suit pressure plummet, then my readings go flat. Followed by me taking a brief flight down a hill skewered like a kabob in the middle of a violent sandstorm. So, yeah, they thought I was dead.

Who knows, maybe they stayed around for a couple minutes, had a chat about pulling my body out of the sand, but, once again, regulations are clear. A crewmate lost off-ship stays off-ship. Leaving my body behind would reduce the MAV weight, meaning more disposable fuel and a larger margin of error for return. The dead are gone, and the living want every opportunity to stay that way, so there's no room for sentimentality in space.

That's the sitch, then.

I'm stranded on Mars with no way to contact my crew. Everyone in the world thinks I'm dead. I'm in a Hab designed to last for a 31 day mission.

If the Oxygenator breaks down, I'll suffocate.

If the Water Reclaimer breaks down, I'll die of thirst.

If the Hab breaches, I'll kinda explode.

If none of the above happens, pleasant options as they are, I'll eventually run out of food and starve.

So, yeah. I'm gonna stand by my earlier assessment.

I'm fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

** Log Entry: Sol 7 **

I've had a decent night's sleep now that O's not around to keep me up with her snoring. For such a small girl, she sure does sound like a freight train. Things don't seem quite as hopeless as they did yesterday, now I'm over my initial 'holy-shit-I'm-trapped-alone-on-Mars' downward spiral.

This morning I woke up (early, hope you're happy Commander), and ran an EVA to check up on the external equipment.

This is the sitch:

The surface mission was supposed to last 31 days, with rations for the whole crew for 56 days sent ahead on those unmanned supply missions that landed over the past couple years. Shit happens, and that way if any of the probes ran into issues, we'd still be stocked up enough to last out our mission time on the surface.

Since everything went to hell six days into our little adventure, there's enough food left to fuel six people for fifty days. Or one lonely Clarke for 300 days, if I don't ration it. So I'll survive, at least for a while.

I'm not hard done by for suits, either. NASA kitted us out with two suits each, a flight one for landing and leaving, and a hardier EVA one for surface ops. All the flight suits are a no-go, seeing as there's a gaping hole in the side of mine and the other five aren't even on the planet anymore, but that still leaves me with six EVA suits in near mint condition.

The Hab's stood up pretty damn well, considering the shit it went through yesterday. I didn't not give the side a pat when I trekked out through the airlock en route to my EVA.

I did a circle around the Hab to scan for the satellite dish, but it wasn't anywhere in my line of vision. With my luck, it was probably blown a couple kilometers away.

The MAV's gone too, obviously. My crew took that back up to the Ark, but the landing stage is still on the surface and in good shape. It might be good for parts; it's got the landing gear, the fuel plant, and anything else it wouldn't need on the trip back into orbit.

The MDV, on the other hand, is pretty damn bashed up. There's a hole torn in the hull, and it looks like the storm whipped it around by the reserve chute. We didn't use that during the landing 'cause Anya's aces, so instead it got its fifteen minutes of fame dragging the poor little tin can all over and bashing it into rocks. Still, might be good for parts too.

Both the rovers are buried almost to the roof in sand, but seem okay otherwise. You're probably thinking these guys are built like golf carts, small and light, but they're the exact opposite. Have to be, to survive crap like that sandstorm. They're about as close to tanks as you can get, without actually throwing weaponry on them. The pressure seals are intact, thanks to a standard operating procedure of holding and waiting storms out. I'll need to dig them out, it'll probably take a day or so.

So remember how we kept tabs on the storm that stranded me here? That was possible thanks to our weather stations, which've been placed about a kilometre out from the Hab in four directions. And, not only have I lost contact with the Ark and NASA, I've lost contact with them. I'll need to figure something out on that end, 'cause last thing I want is to be stuck out on the surface on an EVA when a storm sweeps through. We all know how well that turned out for me last time. Hopefully they're still in working order and it's just the comms I need to fix up.

The solar panel array was covered in sand, which pretty much makes it useless. I don't want to get super deep into the science or anything, but pro tip: solar cells need sunlight to make electricity. I swept them off, swearing under my breath at the pain in my hip all the while, and they rocketed right back up to 100% efficiency. Funny how that works, eh? I'm probably gonna need to sweep them off every couple of days, but that's all it'll take to get the power I need for… whatever the hell I end up doing.

Things are looking pretty great indoors, too. Despite our concerns, our little bubble stood up really fucking well to those winds. Now that I think about it, it probably helped that the MDV got blown _away_ from the Hab. I know which one would win in that battle, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the place I'm gonna be calling home for the foreseeable future.

I run full diagnostics on the Oxygenator. Twice, just to be safe. It's perfect. There's a temporary spare I can use if it breaks down, but that's only for emergencies. The spare doesn't work quite the same way; instead of pulling apart the CO2 and taking back the oxygen, it has filters like the suits to absorb it. Those would last about five days if the crew were all here, so it gives me a solid thirty days of insurance if anything goes wrong. After that? Well…

The Water Reclaimer is also in good shape, but it doesn't have a backup. If that goes down, I'll be drinking my reserve water until I've got a distillery to boil my piss. Another plus, I'll be losing about a half a litre a day by breathing until the Hab reaches peak humidity and the water starts condensing. After that, I'll be licking the walls. Exciting prospect, but thankfully not in the cards right now.

That's my food, water, and shelter taken care of. If I start rationing my food now, I could probably go for 3/4 portions of a meal and be okay. Luckily, I'm not Lincoln, so I can hopefully get away with that. The guy's built like a brick house, I can't imagine what NASA thought when they had to calculate out his caloric intakes. I might not heal quit as quickly on a restricted diet, but it's a couple days longer with injury in the short run, or a couple more days alive in the long run. I know which one of those I'm more about.

We've got megapacks of vitamins over in the medical area, enough to last me way past the arrival of Ares 5, even, so I won't be hard done by nutritionally. Though I'll still starve when my food runs out. I found the morphine, too. For emergencies. And if there may just be enough for a lethal dose, well, I'm not about to slowly starve to death. If I end up there, I'm taking an easier way out. That's at least one thing I can do on my own terms.

Everyone on this mission had two specialties, with a bit of overlap. I'm our botanist and a mechanical engineer. Raven and I were our fix-it guys, and I was the one who messed around with plants. It's that mechanical engineering that will hopefully end up saving my life.

Even though I've got that little morphine trick up my sleeve, don't worry. I'm still thinking about how to survive this. It's not out of the realm of possibility, though it might be a bit out of the realm of plausibility.

Ares 4 was planned to land in four years. That is, if they don't cancel it 'cause of me. The problem here is that it's not meant to land anywhere near me. The Schiaparelli Crater is about 3200 kilometres away from my little cottage here in Acidalia Planitia, so my luck is obviously fantastic. There's no way I'm getting there on my own. If I had comms running, maybe I'd have a chance. I've got faith that NASA's smart enough to MacGyver that out.

So, that's what I've gotta concentrate on right now. Try and set up comms with Earth. Barring that, try to set up comms with the Ark in four long years when Ares 4 gets here.

Of course, I've got that little problem of barely having enough food for one year, let alone four. But give me a break, I can only handle my dreams being crushed one at a time. I've got food right now, and not a radio, so that's my task: fix the fucking radio.

** Log Entry: Sol 10 **

I mean, I guess I anticipated a little disappointment on that end. But now I've done three EVAs and haven't found a single thing that might point to where that murderous comms dish could be.

I took a couple hours to dig out one of the rovers and went for a joyride. It was actually pretty fun dicking around in it, but after a couple days of wandering it's probably time to give up. The storm would've blown the dish far away and erased any trail it might've left. Probably buried it, too.

I _am_ an engineer, so given some time and some basics I could probably toss together a rudimentary dish out of metal I scrounged up from around the base, but Earth-Mars communications are a little bit more complicated than that. This isn't your grandpa's walkie-talkie. It's actually a pretty big deal to talk across that wide a distance, and requires some extremely specialized equipment. I can't just lob together some tinfoil and gum and call it a day.

I need to ration my EVAs, too, so I can't waste time outside. I can't scrub the CO2 filters, much as I'd like to. The mission accounted for a 4-hour EVA per crewmember per day. Since they're pretty small and light, NASA stocked us up with more than we would've needed, so altogether I've got about 1500 hours worth of filters. After that, I'm gonna be stuck with emergency procedures: letting off CO2 and backfilling with O2 and nitrogen. Not exactly an ideal situation.

1500 hours sounds like a hell of a long time, but consider the fact I'm faced with spending at least four years if I've got any hope of rescue. And several hours a week are gonna be 'wasted' on cleaning off my solar panels, so, yeah. No needless EVAs. Chalk the communications dish up as a loss.

In other, better news, I think I'm starting to throw together an idea for food. That botany background? Seems like it may come in useful, after all.

Why bring a botanist to Mars? The desert planet that's famous for the very fact that nothing grows here? Well, plans were to figure out how stuff grows in Martian gravity, and to see what could be hacked together with Martian soil. Answer? Quite a lot, actually… almost. It's got a lot of the basic building blocks of life, but there's also a lot going on in Earth soil that just isn't present in Martian dirt, even when I throw it into an Earth-atmosphere and water it right up. Bacterial activity and certain nutrients provided by animal life are actually pretty important to plant growth, as it turns out, and absolutely none of that's happening on Mars.

One of my mission tasks was to see how plants grow here, in various combinations of Earth and Mars soil and atmosphere. So I got sent up with a small amount of Earth soil and a bunch of plant seeds. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.  It's a _small_ amount. Window planter size, really. And my seeds are grass and fern. Rugged and easily grown on Earth, but not exactly edible.

So there's two problems, right off the bat: not nearly enough dirt, and absolutely nothing edible to plant in it.

But I'm a botanist, dammit. On a survival kick. I should be able to find a way to make this happen.

And, well, if I don't, I'm gonna be a starving botanist in just over a year.

** Log Entry: Sol 11 **

I wonder how the Isles are doing.

** Log Entry: Sol 14 **

I went to NYU for my undergrad. I'm pretty famous there. Got a bench named after me somewhere on campus, it's kind of a big deal.

Half the students in botany were hippies who thought they could throwback to some gatherer society in a natural world system and be able to feed 7 billion people that way. Though they seemed a lot more interested in growing better pot than in that sorta work. I didn't like them. If my engineering side didn't clue you in, I've always been into botany for the science, not for any New World Order bullshit.

They'd make compost heaps and conserve every scrap of living matter and I'd sit back and laugh at them.

They're probably the ones laughing now.

I'm pulling together any biomatter I can find. Every time I finish up my rations, and leftovers go in a compost bucket. And the other biological matter?

I told you guys about the lack of bacteria in Martian soil earlier. This is the answer to it. The Hab's got pretty sophisticated toilets. Shit is vacuum-dried, accumulated in sealed bags, then discarded on the surface. Humans, we do like to litter.

Litter no longer!

Human waste is a pretty great melting pot of proteins and bacteria and all that good stuff. We're top-grade manure machines. I did an EVA to collect the previous bags of crap we already tossed outside. The bacteria are long since dead, but the complex proteins are still teeming in there. Add in water and live bacteria and you've got a nice shit stew.

I've got another bucket next to my compost bucket. Gonna call this one the tub of turds. I filled it with a bit of water, then the dried shit. Added my own shit since then, too. The worse it smells, the better it gets, and by all accounts it must be going pretty swell in there.

After I've trucked in some Martian soil, I can mix in the shit and spread it out. Add the Earth soil on top and I've got a shit sandwich. The Earth soil is teeming with dozens of species of bacteria necessary for plant growth, and with my handy dandy manure they'll spread and breed like crazy.

In a week, I could start planting, but I won't. I'll spread that soil over a doubled area. It's infect the Martian soil, and a week after that, I'll double again. And so on, and all the while adding new manure from my tub of turds.

At least my body's doing its best to keep my brain alive.

Unfortunately, I can't take all the credit for this shitty idea. People have speculated about this for decades. I'm just putting it to the test.

You're probably wondering why I'm putting so much effort into this, when all I've got is grass and ferns. Well, I took a bit of time and searched through the food supplies. Got some peas, lots of beans, and several potatoes. As long as _any_ of those are up for the stress of germinating after traveling this far, that'll be top notch. I've got vitamins to last me decades, all I need are any kinda calories to survive.

The Hab's got a floor-space of about 92 square metres, if Lexa's files are correct (who am I kidding, of course they are. Nerd.) I'm up for putting it all into this endeavour. I don't give a shit if I have to walk on dirt (well, I do give a shit to my dirt, but… yeah. Bit tired, carry on.) It's gonna take a hell of a lot of work, 'cause I'm gonna have to cover the entire floor to a 10cm depth. That's 9.2 cubic metres of Martian soil, for anyone following along at home. Where's Lincoln when you need him?

But in the end, I'll have 92 square metres of croppable soil.

Hells yeah, I'm a botanist! Fear my botanist powers!

** Log Entry: Sol 15 **

This work is hell, and it doesn't really help that every time I move I can feel myself tearing my stitches a little bit.

I killed 12 hours of my EVA time today shuttling dirt into the Hab. I covered about 5 square metres, which is a pretty tiny corner of the base. At this rate, it's gonna take me fucking weeks to fill this guy up. Remember those 1500 hours of EVA time I've got? I sure do.

I felt like an idiot after the first couple EVAs, once I realized how inefficient they were and that there was a pretty fucking simple solution to it. I started out filling small containers and bringing them in through the airlock, before I realized that I could just leave a big container in the airlock and fill that with the small ones. Sped things up a lot, seeing as it takes about ten minutes to get through the airlock. One way.

Everything aches. The shovels are made for taking samples, not heavy digging. I had to redo my stitches. My back is killing me. But enough bitching. I dug through the medical supplies and found me some Vicodin, so I should be in a pretty happy place pretty soon.

And at least I'm seeing some progress, even if it's only 5 metres. I'll take a bit of time later today to work on my tub of turds, but after lunch. Full ration today. I've earned it.

** Log Entry: Sol 16 **

So, for all you out there that aren't botanists, turns out water's pretty important for plant growth. Who'd'a thunk it.

And it turns out that spending a couple million years on the surface of Mars will eliminate all the water in the soil. So there's one complication I hadn't thought of. Wet dirt for my plants, and my little bacterial friends.

Well, I've got water. But not near as much as I need. Viable soil calls for 40 litres per cubic metre. My plan needs 9.2 cubic metres. Adds up to a nice big 368 litres of water to feed it.

Here's where I'm cursing those fantastic engineers at NASA. They built this excellent Water Reclaimer, best tech available on Earth. So our mission control figures, "why send tons of water up? Just send enough for an emergency." We need about 3 litres a day to be comfortable. They gave us 50 each, so there are 300 total in the Hab.

Looks like that plan of filling the whole Hab isn't going to come to fruition. I feel safe using all but my emergency 50 litres, so I can feed 62.5 square metres at a depth of 10cm. That's about 2/3 of the Hab's floor. It'll have to do. Anyway, it's not like I'm anywhere near that yet. First things first, gotta get way past that 5 square metres.

My crewmates are being really selfless and giving their blankets and uniforms to the cause (thanks guys!). I've wadded them up to serve as one edge of my little planter box, with the curved walls of the Hab as the rest of the perimeter. Then I sacrificed 20 precious litres of water to the dirt gods. (I didn't not get down on my knees and make up a little prayer after I did so.)

That's when things got a bit messy. Those 5 metres I'd trucked in were about good for the amount of manure I've been stewing up. So I dumped my tub of turds on the soil and got to spreading. That's all I'm gonna be saying about that.

Let's be real here, I'm kinda glad Callaghan's not around to see this. The smell's gonna stick around for a bit, cause it's not like I can crack a fucking window. My hair could probably stand up on its own right now, and I'm not about to waste water on washing myself when I barely even have enough to water my farm. Nasty doesn't even come close.

In other, less disgusting, news, today's Thanksgiving. Seeing as I died about ten days ago, mom's probably not in the mood for turkey and stuffing. For all I know, she's on her way home from my funeral, or back to working 24/7 like she did after my dad died.

I'm so sorry, mom.

I'm trying to get back to you, I promise.

(I wonder if she'll ever find out what really happened.)

** Log Entry: Sol 22 **

Wow. Things are really getting going up in here. My side's healing up pretty well; the infection's gone down thanks to me pumping myself full of antibiotics and it's scabbed over nicely. Hopefully I'll end up with a pretty sweet scar that I can show off. _"Here's where I almost died on Mars!"_ Not that I'll need the help picking up our commander, honestly. I've got better game than that.

I've got all my Martian sand inside and prepped. Two-thirds of the base is now dirt. Today I doubled it for the first time. It's been a solid week, and the former soil is all bacteria-laden thanks to, well, my shit. Two more of these and the whole field'll be covered.

Really helped out my optimism. For about ten minutes. Then I had dinner while listening to Reyes' Beatles collection, and headed straight back down into depression.

I did a bit of mental math, and this is gonna be nowhere near enough to keep me from starving. Potatoes are gonna be my number one option in terms of calorie density and speed of growth. They check in at about 770 calories per kilogram. I'm pretty sure the ones I have will germinate (and if they don't, I've got a bigger problem anyways). I just can't grow enough of them. I'm giving up about 62 square metres of space in the Hab to farmland, which'll give me about 150 kilograms of potatoes in 400 days (that little starving-Clarke window). That's a nice 115,500 calories, which sounds like a lot, until you calculate it out and realize it's an average of 288 calories per day. Yeah. At my height, weight and activity level, and if I'm willing to starve a bit, I need 1500 calories per day.

Not even close.

Not even on the same planet.

So the Griffin Farm is gonna help a little bit, give me another 76 days of life. Those 76 days will give me another 22,000 calories of potatoes, which'll give me another 15 days. That shrinking cycle's kinda pointless to keep calculating. So all told it buys me about 90 days.

So instead of being KOed on Sol 400, I'm looking at Sol 490. Cool. Wanna know when Ares 4 is gonna show up?

Sol 1412.

That's another 1000 days of food I need to figure out.

That I have no plan about how to get.

Shit.


	4. Chapter 4

** Log Entry: Sol 25 **

I was always a fan of those algebra questions we'd get back in elementary school. You're eating candy from a bowl at one rate and it's getting refilled at another rate and you need to try and work out when you're going to put your hand in and be super disappointed.

… I could really go for a Mars bar, ironically…

Anyways, here I am using that concept again, only this time it's for my little "keep Clarke Griffin alive" project that you might've heard I'm working on.

I've gotta grow a hell of a lot of calories, enough to last four years. If I don't get rescued by Ares 4, then I'm gonna be dying anyways, so I don't see a point in planning past that. So, four year target.

Thanks to those bulk containers of vitamins NASA stocked us up with, I'm set for life. And there's about five times the minimum amount of protein I need in each meal pack, so if I ration those that takes care of that. I'm all set nutrition-wise, it's just those fucking calories.

I need a minimum of 1500 a day to sustain basic life, taking into account activity level and metabolism. I've got 400 days' worth right now, and I've gotta last a cool 1400 days if I'm gonna go home with Ares 4. I'll spare you all the boring calculations, but that means I've gotta pump out about a thousand calories a day as Farmer Clarke to last.

But another thing, that stat's reliant on my plants being in the ground and producing already. But it's Sol 25 and I've yet to plant anything, so that average is gonna get pushed up a bit.

And I can tell you right now, this fucking farm isn't gonna be anywhere near big enough to sustain me. I've got 62 square metres down, and that'll give me a yield of 288 calories a day. I need four times that to survive. This has to be some kind of sick fucking joke.

Okay. So, more farmland, less depression. I can take over all 92 square metres of the Hab, because me not dying is a hell of a lot more important than how I'd feel about living in my own filth (literally). And, sorry guys, but you've left your bunks unused for almost three weeks, so ownership automatically goes over to me, and I'm making the executive decision to put soil in them, too. Sorry not sorry. Those ten square metres could be the difference between life and death, and bring me up to 102.

The Hab's got three lab tables coming in around the same size as the bunks, which is kinda funny if you really think about it. All the things you could do in both those places, with or without the company of your coworkers. (Especially with. The dreams I've had about the hitch I'd hear in Lexa's breathing if I backed her up against the edge of one of those benches.) Anyway, that's beside the point. I'll be saving one of those for my own… personal… use, which still leaves two to be recruited to the cause. For those of you following along at home (Ha. Ha ha.) that's another four square metres, and so we're up to 106.

Now, you might remember that I've got a Martian fleet of two rovers, which means I'm the leading land power here. And if I tossed together a little dinghy out of Hab scraps, then I'd be the leading naval power, too. Dictatorship of Clarke Griffin, here we come. These rovers have pressure seals so we can strip off our spacesuits inside and drive in ease, instead of trucking around carrying the weight of the equipment. I'm about ninety-two percent sure Octavia and Lincoln did it in Rover 1 on our second day here, but though they might have enough room in them for extracurriculars, they're too cramped to plant crops in. And I want to be able to drive them around anyway, even if one of them might be Blake's weird sex-den. But, lucky for me, both rovers have emergency pop-up tents.

There are probably a couple thousand problems with using pop-up tents for my little farming project, but they're got 10 square metres of floor space apiece, and that's something that's otherwise in pretty short supply. If I can figure out ways to overcome the issues, that buys me another 20 square metres, and brings my total up to 126.

126 square metres of farmland. Not ideal, but it's workable. Of course, at this point I've got nowhere near enough water to moisten the soil, but, as Queen Jordin put so aptly, one step at a time, there's no need to rush. Not like I've got anything vital hanging on the success of this project.

That was a joke. Ha ha. Laugh with me, NASA.

Now that I've got my farmland problem mostly worked out, I can turn to how efficient I am as a farmer. I'm using Earth data for all these projections, but I'm on a planet notorious for nothing growing there, so I might even end up having to throw that data out the window. On the plus side, I'm a hell of a lot more motivated than an Earth farmer has probably ever been, thanks to this whole desperate-race-for-survival gig. To put it lightly, I'm kinda keen to get a better yield than anticipated.

I've got all the time in the world, so I can give individual attention to each plant, make sure they're healthy and trimmed and not fighting each other. I likely won't see disease hitting my stock, and potato bugs are a non-issue. And, best of all, when the flowering plant breaches the surface, I can dig it up and replant 'em deeper, so that I can drop the little tyke plants on top of 'em. This isn't worth it for actual farmers working with millions of plants, but it could be the difference between death and life for me.

Farmers also don't use this because it turns their fields to dust after about a decade of the practice. But, hell, if I'm still here and alive in a decade, I'll probably have also hacked together a whole little hobby farm, complete with a stupid-faced cow and an asshole goat, so I'd deal with that when I got to it. Sustainability can go fuck itself.

Using these tactics, I can probably wrangle out a 50% higher yield. And I've just more than doubled my 62 square metres of farmland, so all in all it works out to over 900 calories a day. Everything's coming up Clarkey.

I mean, I still might starve, but at least not on Sol 490. I've bought myself a bit more time, and put myself in the range of survival. And I could knock my caloric needs down a bit by minimizing my physical labour and upping the temperature in the Hab to 'nice and toasty', which'd make my body expend less energy trying to maintain temperature. And, if worse comes to worst, I can always hack off an arm and grill me up a nice little snack while decreasing my caloric demands.

Or I could also not. Lexa might be a bit disappointed if I came back with five fewer fingers. For obvious reasons.

For sex reasons, it's for sex reasons.

I don't know why I felt the need to spell that out, but I have no idea how to redact something from the log, so that's now immortalized as a part of NASA history. I can see the headlines now. _Marooned astronaut talks about screwing her commander_. Please redact that. Please please please.

Back to the point, whatever _that_ was. Oh, right. So, I've got 126 square metres of farmland, and to plant that 10 cm deep, I'm going to need about 6.4 more cubic metres of soil (golly gee, more shoveling, whee!) and that's gonna need more than 250 litres of water.

I've got 50L left for me to drink if the Water Reclaimer breaks down. So I'm a nice round 250L short of my 250L goal.

Shit. I'm going to bed.

** Log Entry: Sol 26 **

I'm sick of fucking thinking about the fucking water, so instead I buried myself with back-breaking manual labour. Don't need water until I've got the soil, anyway, and thus I spent a productive day lugging dry, useless sand into the Hab.

Got about a cubic metre in before I felt like I was KOed. I'm not having issues with my stitches anymore, and I think I should be able to take them out soon.

Just after I finished dragging the dirt in, another fucking dust-storm dropped by on a visit for about an hour and blanketed the fucking solar collectors, so even though all I wanted to do was nap, I had to fucking suit up _again_ and drag my ass out on another EVA. What a fucking piss-off. I had to spend another two hours sweeping off the solar cells, which is not only tough as shit, but boring as shit, too. Great fucking pairing. But, at least when I was done I could come back to my Little Hab on the Prairie.

If only to put myself back to work doubling up my shit again. Took another hour. One more doubling after this and I'm good to go.

About time to start a seed crop. I've doubled enough of the soil that I can leave a tiny corner to work with my twelve potatoes.

Whenever I think about those beauties, it hits me again that I'm a fucking lucky bastard, honestly. Sol 16 was Thanksgiving, and the Commander convinced NASA that it'd be good for morale for us to have something resembling actual _food_ , and not just bags of mush. So, thanks Lexa for the potatoes, and thanks fucking NASA for not freeze-drying or mulching them. If they'd frozen them instead of refrigerated, I'd be fucking fucked. So I'm one lucky-ass Martian, for sure.

Raw potatoes have never looked so good.

I chopped them up into rough quarters with at least two eyes apiece, which is where they sprout from, by the way. The more you know. I let them sit for a couple hours to harden up as I lazed around, then planted them in the corner to do their thing. God speed, my little tater babies. My life depends on you.

On little old Earth it'd take about 90 days for my babies to come to full yield. I really don't have the time for that, not when I've gotta mutilate these kids and use them to see the rest of the field.

Once I crank the heat up to 25.5C, nice and balmy, the plants will grow quicker. And with the internal lights giving off a whole lotta artificial sunlight and me, the Potato Bitch, keeping them well hydrated… once I get water, at least… plus no crappy weather or parasites or weeds, they should reach sproutability - super official term, there - in about 40 days.

That's enough fucking Farmer Clarke for the day, so I hit up a full meal for dinner, cause I fucking earned it. Remember guys, treat yo self. Especially when you've burned a hell of a lot of calories and need them back.

I'm over Raven's music at the moment, so I'm relying on Lex. Come on, baby, show me the money. You've got to have _something_. I rifled through her stuff for her USB and popped it in to see what she had.

Crappy fucking courtroom dramas. That's what the thumb drive is packed with. Countless runs of courtroom dramas from forever ago.

But, Martian beggars can't be choosers. Judge Judy it is.

Fucking Lexa.

** Log Entry: Sol 26 (2) **

I gave up on Judge Judy after a couple episodes. Christ, the general public is a mess.

I moved on to… other activities.

Namely, I've taken to getting off while listening to the music from Lincoln's personal media USB. Couldn't taint that Beatles with that image (you're welcome, Reyes). It's some weird German heavy metal. This is probably going to do some fucked-up shit to my psyche.

Shit. Uhm, redact that?

** Log Entry: Sol 29 **

Over the past few days, I've trucked in the last few cubic metres of dirt I need. I prepped everything for holding the weight of the dirt and potatoes, and even put some of the soil in place. Look at me, Clarke Griffin, functioning adult. Yeah, there's still no more water, but I've got a few little ideas floating around in my head. Really, really, _really_ bad ideas, but ideas nonetheless.

Set up the pop-tents today, too. I deserve a fucking award for that piece of work.

The biggest problem with them is that they're not designed for frequent use. The idea was, you throw out a pop-tent if you fuck up a rover, get in, then wait for rescue.

Hmm. Maybe if I hopped in one and waited, a crewmember might come back to save me.

Anyway, the pop-tents are simple, easy, should hopefully never need to be used. The airlock on these guys is just a set of valves and two doors, nothing fancy. Equalize the airlock with your side, hop in, equalize with the other side, hop out. You're pissing off a lot of air with each use that way, because these things are made for speed during disaster, not efficiency. I'm going to need to get in there at least once a day, and, since the pop-tent volume is pretty damn low, I'd be losing more air than I could afford. Hence, time to put Engineer Clarke to work.

What, you say the solution seems stupid simple? Just hook the airlock up to the Hab? Wow, I never even thought of that, thanks! Or not. I spent fucking _hours_ trying to hack together a pop-tent and one of the airlocks. I've got three in the Hab, and would be willing to sacrifice two to the cause, so it'd be _perfect_ if these could just snap together.

Unfortunately, not the case.

The maddening part is that the pop-tents _can_ connect to other airlocks. You've gotta be able to get compromised people in and out without exposing them to Mars, after all. But they were designed for _rover_ rescue, out in the middle of shithole nowhere. If you really think it through, there's absolutely no reason you'd need to attach a pop-tent to the Hab.

Unless, of course, you're stranded on Mars and need the extra space to grow enough potatoes that you don't starve before rescue comes. But, you know, other than that outlier, really no reason.

I guess for the time being I'm just gonna have to take the hit, and lose some of the air with every entry and exit. The good news is, there's air feed valves on the outside of the tents. Emergency shelter, you remember, injured occupants might need air that could be provided from the rover by hooking up hose. Or provided by the Hab, since _those_ valves and tubing are actually standardized - looking at you, whoever it was that apparently learned nothing from Apollo 13. That hosing will serve to replenish any air lost.

So, I went and set them up, and let me tell you, NASA was not fucking around with their imperatives for speed in emergency situations. The moment I slammed my hand down on the panic button in the rover - actually really exhilarating to hit the big red button, I recommend you try it the next time you see one - my ears popped with the woosh as the tent flew out, attached to the airlock. Took all of two seconds, max.

Lexa, I'm kinda pissed you didn't let me try that during training runs. _So_. _Cool_.

I closed the airlock from the rover side to isolate the pop-tent, and then set up the equalizer hose, which was a fucking joke, seeing as I was actually using it how God intended, for once. Then I took a few trips to get the dirt in and whammo, nice little tater farm. All I need is a straw to chew on and I'll look the whole part of Farmer Clarke, at your service.

Everything went just as smoothly with the second tent.

Now, water.

Dammit.

I miss goddamn rain. So simple.

Maybe I'll do a rain dance, ask the Martian gods to toss me a bone.

Fuck it, that can be a problem for tomorrow.

For tonight, I've got Judge Judy for company, and a couple imbeciles with a dispute they could've solved by speaking three or four civil sentences to one another.

** Log Entry: Sol 29 (2) **

Every time I hear Lincoln's goddamn music I get turned on. I've gone and fucking conditioned myself. Shit.

** Log Entry: Sol 30 **

Remember how I said I had a really dumb plan for getting the water I need? Yeah, I haven't figured out anything better, so it's gotta be this idiotically dangerous idea. And do I mean _dangerous_. But I don't really have much of any kind of choice in the matter, seeing as I'm due for my final dirt-doubling in another couple days. I'm going to be doubling it onto all the new soil I trucked in, and if I don't water it first, it's just gonna die, which would be a downer, to say the least.

I don't know if you knew this, but there's not a lot of water here on Mars. The desert planet. Go figure, right? There's ice at the poles, but those are really fucking far away. If I want water it's gonna have to be a homebrew, but fortunately I'm pretty good making things from scratch - keep that in mind, Lex, I bake a mean apple pie - and even with this, I've got the recipe. Take some hydrogen, take some oxygen, burn that shit. Repeat.

I've got a fair bit of reserve O2, but not enough to make 250L of water. There're a couple high-pressure tanks at one end of the Hab that make up my entire reserve bench. They've each got 25L of liquid O2. They're the Hab's emergency backup, 'cause otherwise it's got the Oxygenator to balance out the atmosphere. They're more here to top up the suits and rovers.

If I did use them up, it's only make 100L of water, and that'd mean no EVAs and no emergency reserves. None of that sounds very appealing, especially with my luck. I'd probably die within the week, and it wouldn't be worth it to get less than half the water I need. No doubt.

But oxygen is surprisingly easier to find on Mars than you'd think. The atmosphere is a grand 98% CO2, and I've got that fancy equipment whose only purpose is liberating oxygen from CO2. All hail the mighty Oxygenator!

Problem: the atmosphere, however, is very thin. About a ninetieth of the pressure on Earth, so it's fucking hard to collect. Can't really just bag it up and truck it in, now, can I? And getting air from outside to in is pretty much impossible, seeing as the whole purpose of the Hab is for that _not_ to happen. NASA here, being too bloody efficient at making sure me don't die.

This is where the MAV fuel plant comes in. It's gotta do _something_ for me, especially after the stunt it pulled where I woke up and it wasn't fucking _there_.

The MAV's been gone for weeks, but, since NASA's got this weird thing for leaving any extra weight on-planet, the fuel plant is sitting out there ripe for the pirating. Remember how the MAV made its own fuel with a little bit of aid from its friend the Martian atmosphere? Step numero uno in that process is to collect and store CO2. Once I trash the MAV leftovers and get that hooked up to the Hab, I've got myself a nice free - to me, not the taxpayers - source of a half-litre of liquid CO2 an hour, forever. It'll take five days for 125L of CO2, which'll give me a 125L of O2 once I force it through the Oxygenator. That's enough for 250L of water. That's a plan.

But while oxygen's my bitch, _I_ am currently hydrogen's.

I thought for approximately two seconds about raiding the hydrogen fuel-cells, but I think keeping myself warm enough to stay alive in the current moment might be a bit more important than potatoes a bit down the line. Plus, the cold would kill all my tater babies, so it'd be a pretty fucking pointless maneuver. Each cells only got a little H2, anyways, not near enough to sacrifice so much for so little return. Energy's about the only thing  
I've got going for me, so I'd really rather keep that functioning.

The MAV's saved my ass with oxygen, so now it's the MDV's turn.

The little tumble-dryer that could was our route through the Martian atmosphere and down to a really fucking smooth landing from none other than Anya. Babe, that perfect landing may have saved my life. Not because you didn't kill us all that day - seriously, though, thanks for not killing us - but because you left so much fuel behind. Fucking _hundreds_ of litres of unused Hydrazine. For those of you not in the know, each molecule of Hydrazine has four hydrogen atoms, so a litre of it has enough hydrogen for _two_ litres of water.

Praise Anya.

I took a little EVA wander over to have a glance at the MDV. 292L of Hydrazine just waiting for me to screw around with it.

There's a catch, you see. Liberating hydrogen from hydrazine is… well… that's how rockets work.

Lexa's sitting somewhere shaking her head at me right now, I know it.

We've all seen rockets take off. Really fucking how. And dangerous. Do that in an oxygen atmosphere and that shit's liable to explode. Not that I don't like watching stuff go boom, but usually I'd rather it wasn't _me_. Especially because then I'd be too dead to appreciate how much water I'd made. That'd be fucking ironic.

My boom juice is pretty simple at its root. It's how Germans accidentally blew themselves up during WWII. It's not stuff to mess around with.

Guess what I'm gonna do now.

All you've gotta do is run it over a catalyst, which I can pirate from the MDV, and it'll turn into nitrogen and hydrogen. Then, in the end, after the boom - should probably stop saying that or it'll turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy - we get five molecules of N2 and ten lovely, _lovely_ molecules of H2.

But chemistry's a bitch, and there's an intermediate step where the atoms take the form of ammonia for a bit. And some of that won't end up reacting. So, instead of smelling my bucket of shit, I'm gonna get the scent of ammonia all up in my life. Yay.

The chemistry's on my side, but there are still a few questions that need answers. How do I make it happen slowly? How do I collect the hydrogen? How angry will everyone be if I survived getting kabobed only to blow myself?

The answer to all of the above? I've got no fucking clue.

I guess I'll have to think of something. Or die.

Whatever. Optimism, Clarkey. Optimism and Law Squiggle Order.


	5. Chapter 5

** Log Entry: Sol 32 **

So. I may or may not have quite a few issues with my little water plan.

Okay, so let's say I do.

With Hydrazine as my limiting factor, I can make about 600L of sweet, sweet H2O. For that to happen, I'm gonna need a nice round 300L of liquid O2. Which'll be easy enough, I guess. The MAV fuel plant takes 20 hours to do its magic and give me 10L of CO2, which the Oxygenator will turn into O2 for me. Once the Atmospheric Regulator sees how high the O2 content in the Hab is, it'll start pulling O2 out of the air - suit, take notes on how _to not_ kill me with high concentrations of O2 -and storing it in the main tanks. Those'd fill up, so I'd have to transfer O2 over to the rovers and even the suits if necessary.

Thing is, that's really fucking slow. It'd take about 25 days at that rate to make as much O2 as I need. Suffice it to say, that's not okay.

And that's not even taking into account a whole host of other problems. Like how the hell I'm supposed to store 900L of hydrogen when I've only got 374L of storage. It's a fucking mystery. I mean, I _could_ use one of the rovers as a tank, if only it were designed to hold in that much pressure. Nope, if I tried that, there'd be a high chance of things going boom in the night.

That means the best way to store the ingredients of water is to, well, make them water. So that's what I'm gonna do.

Really simple concept. Execution? Not so much.

I'll have 10L of CO2 courtesy of the MAV fuel plant every 20 hours. Then I'll go super high tech to vent it into the Hab. By which I mean, bring the tank in and open the valve, then wait 'til it's empty. Very difficult. The Oygenator'll make that into oxygen all on its own.

Sounds pretty safe so far, right?

Well, that's because here's where we get to the suicidal bit.

There's a couple ways I can off myself with this pretty fucking stupid plan. For one, I've gotta release the Hydrazine nice and slow over the iridium catalyst so it can turn into N2 and H2.

Secondly, I've gotta bring a live flame into the Hab and burn the hydrogen.

So many options for me to blow my face off.

Like I said, Hydrazine is pretty much rocket fuel. You know, the stuff that sends spaceships off-Earth with big, fiery explosions. Something you've gotta be really careful with if you're using it for its original purpose, let alone hacking something together out of gum and paperclips. Or close enough. Reyes has somehow gotten away with making a bomb out of it (plus a little gunpowder) back on Earth, but I for one am not entirely comfortable with going MacGyver with it.

Now, provided I don't fuck that up? I've still got to start a fire. In the Hab. On purpose.

If I got NASA on the phone right now and asked them what the worst-case scenario for my little bubble was, they'd answer "fire". And if I asked them what'd come as a result, they'd answer "death by fire".

Makes me feel great about doing this.

But, on the plus side? If I manage to do this without making a "Clarke Griffin Memorial Crater" where the Hab used to stand, then I'll be making water continuously without having to store H2 or O2. Cause it'll me mixing up in the Hab atmosphere as humidity. Cool. Cool cool cool. Science is rad.

And, even better, I don't have to wait until the MAV fuel plant cooks up enough CO2 before I start making water. All I've gotta do is make sure I don't make enough water right now that I use up all my O2. Spoiler alert, that wouldn't be pretty. And I'd probably end up the butt of a lot of jokes back on Earth. Clarke Griffin, survives getting impaled in a sandstorm only to drown herself on a dry planet. What a dumbass.

I managed to get the MAV fuel plant hooked up to the Hab's power supply, but other than that, all I've accomplished today is thinking up a plan that's gonna kill me. Typical.

** Log Entry: Sol 33 **

This is probably going to be my last entry.

Since Sol 6, I've known that odds were I was gonna die here. But I'd figured I'd starve to death in a couple hundred days, not end up blown to pieces four weeks later.

Yes, this is super pessimistic, but I figure if my log just ends, I'd better give an explanation as to why it happened. And here goes.

I'm about to fire up the Hydrazine.

Our mission was designed to take into account Murphy's Law, so I've got plenty of tools for all kinds of possible maintenance duties. Even in a space-suit, it didn't take me long to tear open the MDV and pilfer the Hydrazine tanks. Dragging them over to the shade of one of the rovers took a bit longer. I'm already losing some of my conditioning. We might've worked out on the Ark to try and prevent some loss of bone density and muscle tone, but it's still never enough, and now here I am on Mars, underfed and overworked, and none of Callaghan's 'preparatory' (read: legal torture) 10 mile runs are gonna help me now.

So, it took me a bit of time to drag the tanks over to the shade of the rover, and it's gonna take me a bit more later to get them into the Hab. Why not take them straight to the Hab, you ask?  Because if they're gonna blow up, I'd really rather they blew up one of my cars, and not my house. I mean, how would I be able to fulfill the Martian Dream of the white picket fence and 2.5 potatoes without a home?

After that work, I pried out the reaction chamber. Took some effort, and I somehow managed to crack it in half, but it's out. Good thing I don't need a proper fuel reaction. Actually, I really, super-duper don't need that. Please. I'm gonna turn down your offer of death by big ball of fire.

I brought all the Hydrazine tanks and reaction chamber into the Hab. I thought for a bit about bringing one in at a time, but, I mean, if one's enough to make the Hab blow, where's the harm in bringing them all in? Screw reduced risk.

Lucky for me (for once), the Hydrazine tanks have manual vent valves. Not really sure why, to be honest, but not about to question the best thing that's happened to me in a while. Since I've got them to work with, all I need now is a wrench.

I 'found' a spare water hose from the Water Reclaimer (okay, Lex, you got me, 'liberated'. So much for those 'please leave the equipment alone if you're not going to use it for its correct purpose' speeches. All this hacking stuff together I'm doing would have you rolling in your bunk). Tore some thread from a uniform (again, sorry, Reyes), and then attached the hosing to the valve output to I could shepherd the Hydrazine down to the reaction chamber. Well, more of a "reaction bowl", now that clumsy old me got to it.

The MAV fuel plant's been working away through all of this. I've dumped a canister of CO2 already, for the Oxygenator to have at, and taken the tank back for refilling. So I've got nothing more to delay me. I've gotta buckle down and do this shit.

If you find a nice big crater where the Hab used to be, that means I kinda screwed up. I've copied this log over to the rovers and moved them away from the Hab to increase the likelihood of it surviving.

Here goes nothin'

** Log Entry: Sol 33 (2) **

Well, I'm alive. Somehow.

I suited up in the inner lining of my EVA gear, including gloves and booties. Probably looked like one of those crime scene techs on Law & Order. Hmm. Wonder if Lex'd be into that.

Uhm, redact? Anyhow, I pilfered an oxygen mask from medical (nothing fancy, just one of those clear, soft ones with the elastic strap you pull around your head) and some lab goggles from Lincoln's chemistry kit. I was covered head to toe and breathing canned air, which tastes just about as good as it sounds.

Why, you might ask? Cause Hydrazine is toxic as shit. Breathe too much? You'll get lung problems. Get it on your skin? Chemical burns that'll never go away. Sue me for not wanting to make this any harder than it has to be.

All this build-up felt pretty anti-climactic when I turned the valve and let a drop of Hydrazine trickle into the iridium bowl. It sizzled and disappeared. The end.

But I was grinning pretty big, 'cause that's exactly what I wanted to happen. That little disappearing act freed up hydrogen and nitrogen. Hooray!

I might be low on quite a few things here (cough food cough), but one thing I do have an abundance of is bags of all sizes. They seem pretty much like kitchen trash bags, but probably cost a couple grand a pop because NASA.

They're mainly here for Callaghan's use. Not only was she our supreme commander, she was also the geologist. Had the mission continued, she'd've collected rocks and soil and stuff from all over the 10K radius around the Hab that was our operational area. Of course, there would've been a weight limit on how much she could bring back, so she was going to bag and tag everything she picked up and then sort through and pick out the most interesting 50kg to ship home with us.

Sorry, Lex. Maybe I'll pick out the coolest rock here and bring it home to you, hey? How's that sound?

Duct tape's in high supply as well. Ordinary, hardware store duct tape. It's pretty much the only thing NASA couldn't improve on, 'cause it was already man's greatest invention.

I sliced apart a couple lawn and leaf-sized bags and taped them together to form a tent of sorts. Okay, you got me, it's pretty much just a bigger bag. I covered up my whole mad scientist lab table with it. Thankfully, the bags are clear so I can still see what the hell I'm doing.

Next I looted one of the suits for an air hose. I've still got a surplus, after all. It's basic supply and demand. There were seven down here; one for each crew member and a spare, so I don't really mind murdering one.

I cut a hole in the top of my bag-tent and duct taped the hose in place. The seal should hold, I think. Then I butchered Reyes' uniform some more so I could hand the other end of the hose from the ceiling of the Hab to make a chimney. Here's how it'll work. Hopefully. The hydrogen will be nice and hot after the iridium reaction, and as we know, hot air rises, so it'll go up the chimney and I'll burn it as it comes out. Easy as pie.

Ever since Thanksgiving I've been craving a big old slice of pumpkin pie.

Then I had to create fire.

Unfortunately for me, NASA put a hell of a lot of effort into making sure nothing could burn up here. Everything's metal or flame-retardant plastic, and even the uniforms are some weird synthetic material. Can't even have pencils. There's that joke about how the States threw a hell of a lot of money into creating a pen that could write in space and the Russians just used a pencil, right? Well the thing about pencils is that in low-grav, the graphite from pencils can break off really easily and gum up our electronics, possibly short something out, and then kill everyone on board. So, yeah. No pencils.

I'm gonna need something that can act as a pilot light, and hold a flame. Wish me luck.

I ended up digging through everyone's belongings. If you guys didn't want me to invade your privacy, maybe you shouldn't've left me here with all your shit. That's where I found my answer.

Thank you, Anya, for having my back _again_. I owe you one. Or fifty, the way this is going.

I knew she was proud of being USMC, but what I didn't know was she'd brought along a small wooden bulldog keychain. Probably got a lot of shit from NASA for it, but it's Anya. She'd have given them shit right back, then stowed it away in her luggage.

I chipped it up with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. I figure if I live long enough to see her again, Anya's not gonna fault me for doing what I had to survive. She might still punch me, though. She'll probably punch me anyway, so what does it matter?

There's a ton of stuff around to make an electric spark, but not nearly one big enough to ignite wood. So I trundled off to the woods to gather together some dried leaves and grass so I could make like an Eagle Scout-

No. Not fucking really. I vented pure O2 at the splinter and gave it a spark. Lit up like a goddamn match.

With homemade torch in hand, I restarted the Hydrazine flow. It pulled the disappearing act on me when it contacted the iridium, and then I had short bursts of flame coming from the chimney. Rad shit. All I had to do was keep an eye on the temperature and make sure it didn't climb too high (Hydrazine breakdown is way exothermic), and I was set.

Shit was fucking working!

MacGyver away!

Since I'm all hyped up now, I'm willing to give up half my O2 reserves to the cause. So I'll stop when my 50L Hydrazine tank is half empty, and I'll have 50L of water in hand!

Well, in air, but either way!

** Log Entry: Sol 34 **

That took a long time. I've been up all night working with the Hydrazine. But I'm alive, and I got the job done.

I probably could've finished faster, but I figured the best way not to melt my skin off was to take caution setting fire to rocket fuel in an enclosed space. So, I've still got my face. You're welcome, Lexa. I know you like it.

It's pretty much a damn tropical jungle in here now. Almost 30C, and fucking humid, thanks to the 50L of water I dumped into the atmosphere.

I've been tripping around like a messy toddler, and the Hab's had to compensate for me, which means there've been alarms constantly blaring as it tries to fix everything I've screwed around with. Replacing all the oxygen I burned off, getting the humidity back down to a sane level. Nothing doing about the heat; we never really expected to need to leach off excess heat, what with the freezing-cold-planet thing.

The Water Reclaimer alarm joined the low O2 and high humidity alarms, meaning the main tank was full. Finally, a good problem! I took the spacesuit I vandalized yesterday, hung it on its rack, and dumped buckets of water into the neckhole. It should be able to deal with that.

Now I'm fucking tired. This all-nighter takes me right back to my college years, only I'm not ending it at some greasy pancake house with a vat of cheap coffee and a couple of asshole best friends. Even so, I'm still going to be going off to sleep in the best mood I've been in since Sol 6.

Things are finally going my way. In fact, they're fantastic! I'm gonna have a chance to live after all!

** Log Entry: Sol 37 **

Screw me, I'm gonna die.

** Log Entry: Sol 37 (2) **

Okay, I need to settle down a bit. Kinda difficult right now, but I can try.

I'm writing this log to you from the comfy confines of Rover 2. Why am I not in the Hab right now? Well, I might've possibly fled in terror. And now I have no idea what the hell I should do.

I guess once again this is an 'anticipating my rapidly approaching death' log. Is it just me, or am I having way too many of those?

I've spent the last couple days in the Hab, happy as a clam. The whole making-water shtick has been going swimmingly.

I hate myself.

I even managed to get a little drunk on power and beefed up the MAV fuel plant compressor. Super technical stuff like increasing the voltage. Okay, you got me, not that tough, but it's letting me make water faster, so just give me this one.

After that first 50L burst, I decided to calm it down a bit and not go past a 25L O2 reserve. That whole fear-of-drowning thing coming back again. So when the O2 drops too far, I stop screwing around with the Hydrazine for a bit until it comes back up past 25L.

Something important to note here: I've been assuming that I made 50L of water. I didn't get 50L back through the Water Reclaimer. All that soil I'd trucked in was super fucking dry and sucked up a lot of the humidity, and seeing as that's where I wanted it to go anyway (and this way I don't have to bucket it out) I wasn't too concerned.

Since I screwed around with the pump, I'm getting 10L of CO2 every 15 hours. I've done this four times. Doing some super simple math, that's a grand total of 130L that should be somewhere in my system.

Yeah, about that…

My math is a fucking liar.

There's about 70L in the water regulator and the suit-tank, and a whole lot of condensation on the walls, and, sure, the dirt's probably absorbed quite a bit, but that doesn't add up to the missing 60L. Not even close. Something was wrong.

Then I noticed the reserve O2 tanks. They're on either side of the structure for 'safety reasons'. The Hab'll pick and choose which to use depending on the situation. It's been using Tank 1 to top off the atmosphere as I burn it, but then distributing the O2 I put back into the system between the two tanks. Meaning Tank 2 has been gaining oxygen.

Wouldn't usually be a problem. Isn't, really, except it means one thing. I've been gaining O2 over time. And thus not consuming it as quickly as I'd thought.

Initially, seemed super good. More oxygen = more water.

Then I remembered the whole 'the-Hab-is-a-closed-system' part of the puzzle. The amount I'm pumping in here is a constant. So the only way I'm gonna go about 'gaining' O2 is by using less than I thought. But I've been setting shit on fire under the assumption I was using it all up.

Take a moment and the issue will come to you…

That's right, I haven't been burning up all the hydrogen. It's obvious now, in retrospect, but I never really thought it'd be an issue. Dammit, Jim, I'm a fucking botanist, not a chemist!

Looks like my luck is all burned up.

So now there's unburned hydrogen in the air surrounding me. Lurking, waiting for a spark. Waiting to blow the Hab up.

When this hit me, and I pulled myself together, I got a sample bag and waved it around a bit and sealed it off. Super scientific, obviously, but I didn't really have time to screw around. Ran out to the rover and got the results back. This test? It's a failure.

Nitrogen 22%. Oxygen 9%. And the kicker.

Hydrogen 64%.

I've been camped out in the rover ever since, on account of the Hab being unhabitable right about now.

Hydrogenville, Mars. Population: 0.

I guess I must have some luck, cause the thing hasn't blown yet. Even a tiny static charge could make that thing go off.

I've got a day or two out here before the CO2 filters from the rover and the spacesuit fill up. Then I've got to face the music. It's not the most pleasing conundrum, as per usual. Suffocate out here or die in a fiery explosion in there. But I've got to figure out how to deal with this.

After all, the Hab is now a bomb.


	6. Chapter 6

** Log Entry: Sol 38 **

I'm still hiding out in the rover, but now I've had a couple hours to think, and I'm pretty sure I know how to deal with the hydrogen. Maybe. Probably. I think.

What could go wrong, eh?

I've yet to introduce you to my good friend the Atmospheric Regulator. It's my main man in there for keeping my air in check, and it's the reason all that excess oxygen got stored away in the tanks. It's main flaw, however? It's got no idea what to do with the hydrogen.

Okay, I guess it wasn't built to deal with that, but, still, come on man, couldn't have had my back on this one?

No, actually. Cause it uses freeze-separation to deal with gases. When there was too much oxygen, it would've collected air and cooled it until the oxygen turned to liquid (90K for those of you who wanna try this at home) (I figure NASA's gonna put a PSA in here so I'll do that for them, please, please don't try this at home). The oxygen would be liquid but the nitrogen would've still been gaseous (that'd need a temp of 77K to condense), and so the O2 could be stored easily. And lo and behold, hydrogen would require temps below 21K to go liquid, and my man the Atmo-Reg is not at all built for that.

Bummer.

But wait! Remember how the Hab's a bomb now because of the excess hydrogen? Like you could forget, but… Anyway, it can only blow up if it's got oxygen to pal around with. Take that away and it's harmless. And the Atmo-Reg can manage that for me, at least.

There's at least four safety interlocks to try and stop the oxygen from getting too low, but those are designed to work against accidents and failures. Not Clarke Griffin on a rampage. They'll never see me coming. I am become death, destroyer of atmospheres and all that shit.

So what I can do is trick the Atmo-Reg into pulling out all the oxygen, then throw on a spacesuit (I'm not fucking Thor, I do need to breathe) and do whatever the hell I want with absolutely no consequences! I hope!

Then I'll grab an oxygen tank and spray it in short bursts and then light shit on fire again! Only this time it'll just be until the small bits of oxygen are used up, so I probably won't burn my eyebrows off. Then rinse and repeat until I've burned off all the hydrogen.

Tiny, tiny issue with that, though. I'll be saying bye bye bacteria.

All that soil I spent days trucking in is only viable cause of the bacteria. Take away the oxygen and the bacteria dies. If only I had a trillion little spacesuits I could dress them all up in. If only, if only.

Well, at least I've got like five-eighths of a solution there, right? I've earned a break.

Commander Callaghan was the last one of us to truck around in this rover, back on Sol 5. She was supposed to use it again on Sol 7, but had a prior engagement, so her travel kit's still in here. I would feel a bit bad about rifling through it, but it's not like I haven't already pillaged her bunk. Still, sorry, Lex. I'll buy you a protein bar back on Earth to replace this one. As if that wasn't good enough, her personal USB was tucked away too. Hopefully it's got some tunes on it, so I can have dinner and a show.

** Log Entry: Sol 38 (2) **

Are you fucking kidding me, Callaghan? What fresh hell is this?

** Log Entry: Sol 38 (3) **

If you ever try to play any of this shit for me at home I swear to all the Martian gods I will punch you in the face. Honestly. Music like this is the reason extraterrestrials stay away from Earth.

** Log Entry: Sol 38 (4) **

Ha, I'm an extraterrestrial now. E.T. here, wishing I could phone home.

** Log Entry: Sol 39 **

Praise me, for I am the ultimate scientist.

But seriously, round of applause for my brain.

Cause I think I've got this figured out.

(I know I've said that before, but this time it's legit, I promise.)

Winter is a Thing back on Earth, right? So soil bacteria are kinda used to the whole freezing-for-a-bit-and-then-thawing-out-again. They chill out (pun intended) and use less oxygen to survive. So if I drop the Hab temp to 1C they should pretty much go into hibernation mode, and they should be able to survive for a couple days like that. 'Should' being the operative word. If it's cold for too long, the bacteria _will_ die, but the ones deeper underground where it's a bit warmer will breed up and replace them.

I can't remove all the oxygen, but I should be able to take it down to 1% and be fine. That should be enough for the bacteria to breathe and for me not to set everything on fire.

But what about your plants, you ask. Got a plan for that too! Go me!

They don't really give a damn about the lack of oxygen for that short a period, but the cold would kill them. So Farmer Clarke is going to make an appearance, and I'll bag 'em up and move them to a rover until I'm finished with the Hab. Against all odds I've managed to figure out how to make the heat stay on in the rover when it's unoccupied (what the hell, NASA? Sometimes you just wanna let it idle and heat up a bit, right? Ever think about that? Obviously not!). Surprisingly difficult, but I figured it out. Got nothing better to do right now, anyway.

That's the plan, then. Bag and drop my babies in the rover (and make sure the damn thing stays on). Turn down the thermostat to 1C. Turn down the O2 to 1%. MacGyver together a battery, some wires, and a tank of O2 to burn off hydrogen.

A rock-solid plan with absolutely no chance of catastrophic, explosive, Mars-shattering failure.

Seems being abandoned has only made me more sarcastic.

Go figure.

** Log Entry: Sol 40 **

This is a good news/bad news situation.

Good news? I'm still alive.

Bad news? Things didn't go so great. I mean, it wasn't _terrible_ , but I also don't have any eyebrows left. So there's that.

But what did you expect? No plan's ever perfect the first go round, right?

Right.

First things first, I stopped being a scaredy-cat, pulled myself together, went back to the Hab, and found it ransacked.

Martian scum.

Just kidding. Everything was exactly how I'd left it. I don't know what else I expected, honestly, but I guess my evacuation felt a lot more stressful than it actually was.

I lowered the temp right away; it'd take a while for the Hab to cool down to 1C and I could use that time to bag my tater children up and get a good look at them. Maybe I should stop calling them my kids. It made the whole process feel a little dirty, and not just because I was forearm-deep in soil. The plants are coming along nicely, unlike my plan for how to get them from Hab to rover.

Fortunately, that dilemma had a pretty easy answer. I tossed 'em in Anya's suit and dragged them out to the rover, where I screwed around with the heater until I got it set. That's pretty much all engineering is, by the way. Mess around with something until you find a fix that works.

Back in the Hab, the temperature had already dipped to 5C. A bit brisk, considering these shit mission clothes are meant to be worn in temperature-controlled environments. So I threw on a couple extra layers, and even with two on top of my base uniform, I was still pretty fucking cold. I wrapped myself up into a burrito and huddled up in my bunk to wait out the remainder of the temperature drop.

Once it hit 1C, I gave it another hour so that the bacteria realized it was time for lights out.

And then, since I can't go more than two hours without running into a problem, the Atmo-Reg outwitted me. Remember how sure I was I'd be able to pull it in line with my intentions?

Yeah, talk about sticking my foot in my mouth.

Seems NASA really, _really_ doesn't want the oxygen saturation going below 15%. Very surprising. Didn't see that one coming at all. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get it to go any lower. Even my attempt at reprogramming the system failed.

So I've gotta go a bit more caveman with it. Minus clubbing shit to death. The tech is fine, Reyes, get that look off your face.

There's nine vents used for air sampling, in a different set than the big one on the main unit used for freeze-separation. They're spaced around the lab so that the Atmo-Reg can get an average and prevent a localized imbalance from messing things up.

One localized imbalance, coming up!

I grabbed my magic duct tape and taped up eight of the intakes, then turned my attention to the final one. Intake #9, come on down! I taped up one of the trash bag-sized… bags… over the neck of Raven's suit (thanks babe), then poked a hole in the other end and taped it over the intake.

Flood that with pure O2 from the suit's tank and voila! Atmo-Reg successfully fooled. It started pulling O2 out of the air straight away! A+ work if I do say so myself!

I opted out of throwing on a suit, seeing as the atmospheric pressure was gonna be fine and the temperature wasn't gonna go below freezing. Just strapped on an oxygen mask and let rip with an O2 canister. Hell of a lot easier to move, and the thing strapped right on to leave my hands free!

Though, I did need to keep an eye on one of the spacesuits to see what was actually going on with the atmosphere, as the Hab's computer was busy blaring warning bells because it thought the O2 saturation was at 100%. So I grabbed Lincoln's suit, dragged it out to my lab bench, and activated the internal air sensors.

When the sat reached 12%, I strapped on the rebreather. At 1%, I cut power to the regulator. Atmo-Reg, fear my awesome power. I can't reprogram you, but I can sure as hell turn you off completely.

For a spark this time around, I tore apart one of the emergency flashlights we've got scattered around the Hab. I ripped out the LED bulbs and left the power wires close to each other. Flip the switch, create a spark.

There was this little voice inside me chanting, "Set things on fire! Set things on fire!"

Arsonist Clarke, you're about to be appeased.

I stripped an O2 tank from Lincoln's suit and rigged up a harness over my shoulder, then attached an air line to it and wound it around my hand so I could control the flow.

And then I turned on a slow trickle of O2 and let my sparker rip.

Turns out, flamethrowers are fucking _cool_. The jet of flame set off the fire alarm, of _course_ , but there'd been so many alarms going off that I barely noticed it.

And then there I was, loosing oxygen and clicking the flashlight again and again. Possibly laughing like a maniac all the while. You've got no proof.

My glorious, ingenious plan was working! Best plan _ever_! Not only was I getting rid of the hydrogen, I was making water too! Everything was perfect!

So obviously that's when everything exploded.

One minute I was a happy little pyromaniac, burning away the hydrogen. The next? Flat on my back on the other side of the Hab, head ringing and ears in fucking pain. I stumbled to my feet and stared around at the mess.

Then the dizziness hit, and I was back on my knees, then face-down in the dirt saying a nice close 'Hello' to my resting bacterial friends. I reached up slowly to feel for any gaping head wounds but luckily came up empty, though when I passed my palm over my face I realized I'd burned my eyebrows right off. Fan-fucking-tastic. Good thing there's no one here to see.

That's when I realized that, not only could I not feel my eyebrows, I couldn't feel my damn oxygen mask either. It'd been torn straight off and no wonder I was so fucking dizzy, considering I was breathing pretty much pure nitrogen.

Dumbass.

I was fucking suffocating. I'd managed to blow myself up in an oxygenless environment (can I get a fucking award, because _damn_ , how the hell did I manage that?) and now I was suffocating on nitrogen. All in a day's work.

There was no fucking way I was gonna find the medical O2 tank in the junk covering the floor of the Hab. Then I saw the water-filled suit. Callaghan's, by the name tape. It hadn't been moved by the explosion. It being heavy already and then adding another 70L of water added on top tends to do that.

Thank you, Lexa, you long drink of water.

I booked it over there (okay, stumbled, but I was suffocating, okay?), grabbed the stand to hold myself upright, cranked up the O2 and stuck my head in the neck-hole. Sweet, sweet oxygen, how I'd missed you. I stayed there until I could stay standing without a crutch, then held my breath and looked around the Hab.

It looked pretty damn ransacked. Lucky for me, however, the explosion had blown off the bag and suit I'd used to trick the Atmo-Reg, so all I had to do was stumble over and restart the bugger.

NASA was not screwing around when they built that. It rebooted in two seconds, started freaking out over the low oxygen saturation, and dumped pure O2 right back into the atmosphere. It may have taken hours to bring the saturation down to 1%, but bumping it back up was as simple as opening up a valve.

I clambered back to Lexa's suit and shoved my head back in for some more air. Three minutes of breathing from there and then I was good to step away from the suit, as the Atmo-Reg had brought the Hab O2 back to reasonable levels.

That's when I realized that my clothes were pretty much charred. Thank the Martian gods I layered up. Sorry, Lincoln, your sweater is burned to a crisp, and the second layer was looking just as rough. Luckily, because, look at me, I deserve some damn luck, my own uniform came out no worse for wear.

Somehow. Jeez. I looked at the Hab's main computer, and the temperature rose to 15C when the most recent attempt to form the Clarke Griffin Memorial Crater happened. What the hell?!

So now I'm just really fucking confused. And exhausted. Almost blowing up really takes it out of you. I booked it out to the rover because screw staying in the place that tried to kill me an hour or so ago. Not about that life.

Though at least I have one.

But yeah, can't be sure it's not gonna blow up again, or that the bubble's not leaking, so here I am. With a full meal and Octavia's USB, because screw you and your shit music choices, Callaghan.

Or just screw you.

Shit. Redact.

Soooooo, how 'bout that punk rock, O?

** Log Entry: Sol 41 **

I had a fun day full of excitement! Well, not quite. I had to run diagnostics on every single system in the Hab. Shit exploded, I can't really just go on assuming there might not be long-term damage from that. Boring as shit, sure, but gotta do it.

Wanna hear a tip about how to make something boring exponentially more boring? Do the exact same thing three times. Gotta be fucking sure nothing's wrong with any of my shit.

Critical tests came first. I was pretty sure the integrity of the Hab canvas was alright, seeing as I'd gone and slept a few hours in the rover and came back to find the pressure still within normal limits, but you can never be too sure. However, in this case, it was perfect. Yay.

Oxygenator was up to snuff as well, thankfully, cause if that breaks and I can't fix it, I'm dead. Morbid but true.

My old pal the Atmo-Reg? No issues with that, either.

Battery array, Water Reclaimer, O2 and N2 storage tanks, heating unit, airlocks, lighting system, main computer, all the other fucking shit that was in perfect fucking condition.

I mean, feels good to know NASA's systems work great, but it'd feel better if I knew what the hell happened so I could make sure it didn't happen again.

After I finished all those tests, there was still one more thing to check up on. Not for threat of death, but for sign of life. I sampled dirt from around the Hab and prepped my slides, and breathed a hearty sigh of relief when I saw my bacterial pals doing their thing.

Then I set about packing all my shit back into place. A couple of cabinets got blasted open, spreading junk all over the Hab, so I got busy rounding everything up and getting the place back to normal.

Or as close to normal as its gonna get, considering what I've had to do to it to survive.

Lots of time to think while I worked away, and I came up with a bit of a theory.

The main computer told me that during the explosion, the pressure in the Hab spiked to 1.4 atmospheres and the temperature rose 15C in under a second. The pressure hit 1 atm again just as quickly. Something that would make a hell of a lot more sense had the Atmo-Reg been on.

Except it wasn't.

Since the temperature didn't drop off, any heat expansion in the form of increased pressure should've still been present. But the pressure plummeted, so where the hell did that extra pressure go? Raising the temperature and keeping the same number of atoms should have kept the pressure at 1.4 atm. But it didn't.

The answer hit me pretty quickly. Hydrogen + oxygen + combustion = water. Water is a thousand times denser than gas. So the combustion increased the pressure and then the transformation of the hydrogen and oxygen to water brought it back down.

So, where'd the hell the oxygen come from? Considering the whole point of this crap was to make sure I _didn't_ blow myself up.

I've got my answer. And the worst thing about it?

It's all my fault.

Can't blame it on the equipment, can't blame it on the atmosphere. 100% Clarke Griffin shitshow.

Remember how I thought I was too cool for school (and for a spacesuit)?

Yeah, that decision almost killed me.

The medical O2 tank mixes pure oxygen with the surrounding air (so you don't die of oxygen toxicity), and then feeds it to you through the mask. The mask stays on your face with that little elastic band I was so psyched about. Not an air-tight seal

You're probably thinking it was the mask that leaked oxygen.

Nope. Wrong. It was I all along.

The inhalation wasn't the problem. Breathing in created a pretty much airtight seal. Then I exhaled. Remember high school bio? Your body doesn't use all the oxygen from the air you breathe. Not even close. That's why mouth-to-mouth resuscitation is viable, by the way. Science. Anyway, I was breathing oxygen out into the Hab every time I exhaled. And the thought didn't even occur to me! Once again, my dumbassery almost gets me killed!

At this point, I don't know which has come closer to killing me, Mars or myself. Honestly, I need to get my shit together.

On the plus side, I'd burned off a lot of hydrogen before things went boom, otherwise things would've gone a lot worse. I'm lucky I didn't blow the Hab, though I did almost blow my eardrums.

On the list of things that are going my way, the Water Reclaimer did its job last night and ripped another 50L of water out of the air, to be stored in Lexa's suit. The other 10L was absorbed by the dry soil, and there's the Mystery of the Missing H2O solved. I'm just a regular Sherlock Holmes. If he spends 95% of his time setting things on fire and blowing himself up.

Now's time to shovel some food in my face and watch some more of Lexa's shitty courtroom dramas. Griffin out.

** Log Entry: Sol 42 **

I slept in today. Sue me. After the shit I've gone through the past couple days, I deserved it. And it was really fucking hard to get out of my actual bed after spending a couple nights stressing out in the rover.

But I finally managed to drag myself out with the aim of finishing post-explosion clean-up. I got my taters back in the ground, and just in time. Some of them are sprouting, and things are looking up. Maybe I should stop saying that, though? Seems things always turn to shit right after those words come out of my mouth. But this is mother-fucking _botany_. This is what I'm here for, this is my _jam_. I should be able to grow some plants without screwing up.

Right?

But that brings me straight back to my newest problemo. I've made a grand total of 130L of water. Yeah. Still 470L to go. This after almost blowing myself up. Twice. You'd think I'd've learned to stop fucking around with Hydrazine. But no, here I am planning to keep setting shit on fire every ten hours for the next ten days. Go figure. Here's hoping I do a bit better with it this time around.

I'm gonna be spending a lot of time dicking around, what between the 10 hours it takes for each tank of CO2 to finish filling and the 20 or so minutes it takes to reduce the Hydrazine and burn up the hydrogen. Even factoring the extra work I'll be doing to catch the hydrogen I'll miss as I go along.

Looks like I'll be getting well-acquainted with Octavia's personal USB drive.

(You wish, O. Bet Lincoln's got that covered for you anyways.)

But weird sci-fi shows, here we goooooo.


	7. Chapter 7

Marcus Kane returned to his office, dropped his briefcase on the floor, and sank into his leather chair. He stared out at his scenic view of the Johnson Space Centre and exhaled slowly, before a chime from his computer indicated a new email. A second followed moments later, and he spun and took a glance at the screen. Fifty-eight unread emails. Well, they could wait. Today had been a shitty enough day already.

Today was the memorial service for Clarke Griffin. Today was the day he'd pressed Abigail Griffin's second folded flag into her hands and received nothing but a dead-eyed stare in return.

He sighed and pressed at his temples in an attempt to quell his rising headache. The President had given a heartfelt speech, praising Griffin's bravery and sacrifice, and Commander Callaghan's actions in saving the remainder of her crew. Then Callaghan and the surviving crew had given eulogies of their own, sent the day before from deep space.

Callaghan had been trying her hardest not to cry. She'd somehow managed to hold herself together long enough to say a few brief words, but Kane knew her well enough to see the heartbreak in her eyes. It was a pretty poorly kept secret, that Callaghan and Griffin were in love. It was that simple and that heart-wrenching. Kane was sure they'd never acted on it, both too professional to risk the court martial and the mission, but the fact of the matter remained. Griffin was dead, and it had broken Callaghan.

The remainder of the crew had seemed just as downtrodden. Anya had been stiff and unyielding, robotic almost. Blake swallowed back tears and leaned into the unidentified hand that reached into frame to rub circles between her shoulder blades. Lincoln's words were clipped, and he drifted from English to German and back again before signing off. Reyes' face was blank when she calmly recalled the first time she'd met the botanist, how they'd bonded over a dispute in a NASA café and laughed it off later.

Then the Director of NASA had taken the stage, speaking of sacrifices made for scientific advancement, of the dangers inherent to space flight, of humanity's unwillingness to back down in the face of adversity. Thelonious Jaha forced every word out between gritted teeth, and Kane knew the spin doctor's words were far from what he'd actually wanted to say. The Director had been close to the Griffins, and the speech he'd been given by the PR department allowed none of his bottled-up emotion into play.

They'd asked Kane himself to speak on multiple occasions, but each time he had refused. Clarke was dead. The Griffin family was decimated. Nice words from a Mission Director had been no comfort in the wake of Jake's demise on Discovery, and anything he said would never bring Clarke back.

"Marcus? You alright?" came a voice from behind him.

He swiveled his chair around and shrugged at Jaha. "I guess."

"You could've spoken."

"You know I didn't want to."

"I know. I'd rather I hadn't had to, either. But I guess I'm the Director now, the public expects things from me. You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine."

Jaha walked in and perched on the edge of his desk. "Good, so we can get back to work, then."

"Okay. Let's start with you giving me the satellite time I've requested."

Jaha pushed up off the desk with a sigh and crossed his arms. "You know I can't do that."

"Doesn't mean I'm going to stop asking."

"What are you trying to get out of it?"

"Ares 3 may have failed, but we can still learn from it. We've got funding for two more missions, and I think if we get a look at the Ares 3 site we could get Congress to fund a sixth."

"Mind explaining?"

"They evacuated after six sols on the ground. There's pretty much an entire mission left up there, so it'd only take a fraction of the price to send a sixth mission. We'd need two or three supply probes, instead of fourteen."

"Marcus, a sandstorm tore the site apart. It's probably looking very rough right now."

"That's why I want some images of it. We'll be able to tell the extent of the damage with just a couple shots. We'd learn a lot."

"Enough to ensure everything's in working order? We're not going to send astronauts up there essentially blind."

"It doesn't have to be perfect," Kane replied quickly. "We can get a good grasp of what'll need replacing and shuttle that out. The only vital thing is the MAV, and we'd be sending a new one anyway."

"How could we tell from the imagery what's broken?"

"That's just a first step. If the Hab's still in one piece, then everything inside it will be fine. The rovers are essentially impervious to any sandstorm Mars can throw at them. I just need a look, Thelonious."

"You're not the only one who needs satellite time," he replied, looking anywhere but at Kane. "Ares 4 needs imaging to prepare for their supply missions."

"What's really the problem? There are twelve satellites out there, I'm sure you can spare a couple for an hour or two to get me the shots I need. I can even give you the windows-"

"It's not about satellite time, Kane," Jaha interrupts.

"Then what's the issue?"

"We're in the public domain. Everything we do gets released. There's no secret information here."

"So?"

"Any images we take of the site will go public."

"I repeat: so?"

"So Griffin's body is probably still within twenty metres of the Hab. Maybe half-buried in sand, maybe not, but still there, still visible, and skewered like a kabob by an antenna through her chest. We image the site, we're gonna catch that. You really want Abby seeing that plastered all over the evening news?"

Kane stared at Jaha, and then glared. "That's why you've been beating around the bush for two months? Because you don't want to deal with a possible PR issue?"

"The media's been on our backs since it happened," Jaha replied evenly. "It's been nothing but bad press for two months since I had to walk up to that podium and tell the whole world we'd lost an astronaut. Today gives them closure, and maybe now the media will move on. I don't need images of a corpse coming out to drag everything back up."

"Then what? She's in a suit. She's not going to decompose. She's going to be up there forever."

"Not forever," Jaha replied, standing tall. "In maybe a year or so the sand will have covered her-"

"I'm not waiting a year for this. We _can't_ wait a year for this."

"Why not? It's another five years before Ares 5 sets off, we've got plenty of time."

"We could play it another way," he suggested after a moment's thought. "Sympathy for Abby's at an all-time high. We could play Ares 6 as a mission to bring Griffin's body back. Not overtly, but we'd make it clear that'd be a part of it. Right now, Congress would be gung-ho about returning her to rest. But, wait a year? Then there's no chance it'll happen. Nobody will care anymore."

Jaha rubbed his chin and considered the proposition.

\--

Maya stared at the ceiling. Not much else she could do. Other than mainline crappy NASA coffee to get herself through the 3AM shift.

The job had seemed so promising when she'd applied for the transfer. Monitoring the satellites around Mars sounded pretty great, right? Not so much in practice. Master's degree in Mechanical Engineering, and all she got to do was send out emails when new imagery came through. She was working a glorified fucking 24-hour photo booth.

Her screen booting up announced that a set of images were prepped to go. She flipped through her work orders and noted that the request came from one Marcus Kane.

She opened up a new window to begin composing an email, and as she typed the co-ordinates of the image, she recognized the numbers. Acidalia Planitia… that was the Ares 3 site, right? Why would the Director of Mars Missions be looking at a site that'd been abandoned?

In a fit of morbid curiosity, she opened up the first of the seventeen photos.

It was the Ares 3 site, as she'd suspected. She found herself scouring the image for any sign of Griffin's body, shame boiling up in her gut. She was both relieved and a bit disappointed when the search was fruitless.

She kept scanning the rest of the image. The Hab was still intact, something she figured Kane would be happy to see. Her mug was at her lips for another sip of sludge when she froze.

"Uhm," she mumbled, mostly to herself. "What am I- What- Oh, no…"

She pushed her mug aside and brought up the NASA intranet, navigating to the specs of the Ares missions. After a couple minutes of research, her head snapping back and forth between the pages and the image, she reached for her phone.

"Hey. Hi. Uh, this is Maya Vie up at SatCon. I'm going to need the mission logs for Ares 3. Where can I get them? Okay… okay… yeah, thanks." She noted down their instructions and turned back to the intranet, flicking quickly from page to page and writing out her observations, her scrawl getting more and more illegible as she stared at the images. When she'd finished, she tipped back in her chair. The coffee was no longer needed to keep her awake. The images were doing a good enough job of that on their own.

She went for the phone again, misdialing on her first attempt before settling enough to type in the correct speed-dial. "Hello, Security? This is Maya Vie, over in SatCon. I'm going to need Dr. Marcus Kane's emergency contact number. Yep, that one, the Director of Mars Missions. Yes, it's an emergency."

She slugged back the remainder of the coffee in her mug and swallowed hard, then glanced back at the image taking up her screen.

Yup, this was an emergency.

\--

Maya squirmed in her seat as Kane slipped into the office.

"You Maya Vie?" he grumbled, looking a bit annoyed and even more tired.

"Yeah," she replied, her voice shaking. "Sorry about the 3AM wake-up call."

"You wouldn't have made it if you didn't have good reason. So?"

"Uh." She glanced down and winced. "Uhm, it's. The imagery you requested? Of the Ares 3 site? You'd better just come take a look."

He pulled up a chair beside her and commandeered the mouse. "You find Griffin's body?"

"Uhm, well, no." She gestured vaguely at the screen. "It's, well…"

Kane scrolled through the images. "Hab's looking good, solar array is in one piece, the rovers are fine too. The main dish isn't anywhere to be seen, but that's to be expected, considering…" He turns in his chair. "This is why you pulled me down here in the middle of the night?"

"Well, not those…" she taps the screen with the tip of her finger. "That."

Kane leaned in and squinted at the two white circles in the sand near the Hab. "Maybe Hab canvas? Torn off by the storm?"

"Pop-tents," she blurted out. "They look like rover pop-tents."

Kane took another glance and nodded. "Could be, yeah."

"But how'd they get set up?"

"Commander Callaghan probably had them deployed during the evacuation. Not exactly procedure, but not the worst idea to have emergency shelters ready in case the MAV didn't work and the Hab depressurized."

"About that," Maya said, opening up a file. "This is the mission log for Sols 1 through 6. The entire time Ares 3 was on the planet."

"Okay, and?"

"I've read through it multiple times. They never used the pop-tents." Her voice cracked on the last word.

"Well, they obviously did," he said, slightly puzzled. "They're there. They must have just forgotten to log it."

"Commander Callaghan is thorough, she wouldn't forget. They didn't use them."

"Well, that makes no sense, seeing as they're right there." He taps the screen, hard. "Maybe the storm caused a malfunction of the rovers?"

"Uhm," she stammered. "And then the pop-tents detached and lined up next to each other 20 metres away?" She takes a deep breath. "You mentioned the solar cells. Despite the sandstorm, they're clean."

"A good burst of wind could've done that?" he tried weakly.

Maya sniffled, then wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. "Did I mention Griffin's body is nowhere to be found?"

Kane's eyes widened, and he grabbed the mouse, flipping quickly through the images. "Oh…" he breathed out, as Maya sobbed into her hands. "Oh, shit…"

\--

"Shit!" Director of Media Relations Callie Cartwig said. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" She looked helplessly to Kane, searching his face for any hint that this wasn't true. She didn't find anything.

At her side, Jaha rubbed at his forehead. "How sure are you?"

"Nearly 100%," Kane said.

"Shit!" Callie repeated.

"Not helpful," Jaha said.

She wheeled on him, hands on her hips. "Do you understand how big of a shitstorm this is going to be? Do you have any _idea_?"

"One step at a time, Callie," Jaha said. "Marcus, walk me through this. Why do you think she's alive?"

He cleared his throat and stood tall. "First off, no body. Then we've got the pop-tents set up. The solar cells have been wiped clean. We've got Maya Vie over in SatCon to thank for noticing all that, by the way.

"But, I guess, her body could've been buried in the storm. The pop-tents might've deployed on their own. Winds at 30kph could've cleaned off the solar cells without carrying sand. All of that's unlikely, but it's still possible.

"So Maya and I have spent the past couple hours checking and double-checking everything we could. Commander Callaghan took Rover 2 out twice, the second time on Sol 5. As per her logs, she brought it back for recharging in preparation to take it back out on Sol 7. She didn't use it again, and they evacuated thirteen hours after that."

He brought up an image on the screen in front of them.

"This is one of the photos we received last night. Image nine, to be exact. Rover 2 is shown here facing _away_ from the Hab, despite the fact that the charging port is in the nose. The cables wouldn't be able to reach that far in order to charge the rover."

Jaha frowned. "Meaning it's been moved since Sol 5."

"Yeah." He queued another photo. "But it gets better. See in the lower right there? The MDV? There's no way they did that and didn't tell us. And even _more_ interesting? Look to the right. That's the MAV landing stage. That damage there, to the struts? That's from the removal of the fuel plant. Something Callaghan never would've allowed to occur before liftoff. It would've put everyone on the vessel in danger."

Callie dropped her notepad on the desk and looked at Jaha. "Wait, why aren't we just asking Lexa about all this? We can head up to CAPCOM and talk to her."

Kane twisted his mouth and shot a glance at Jaha. After a moment or two, the NASA Director sighed. "Because if Griffin's alive, we don't want Ares 3 to know about it."

"Are you kidding me? Did you not watch the same eulogies I did? They're _hurting_ , they're blaming themselves. Lexa's a wreck."

"And they've got another ten months up there. I'm not tossing another unknown variable into their lives and increasing the danger of the travel. It's going to be tough enough on them as is."

Callie looked to Kane. "And you're fine with this?"

He gnawed at his lip. "We do what we must to ensure their survival. If they make a mistake, we could lose another five lives."

"This is gonna be more talked-about than Apollo 11. How the hell are you gonna keep this from them?"

Jaha shrugged. "We already control all communications sent to them. It'll just take a couple minutes more work to strip out news of Clarke, that's all."

"Shit. Okay." Callie flipped open her laptop. "We have to go public sometime in the next 24 hours, before our public domain status forces our hand. When do you want to do it?"

"What's your take?" Jaha asked softly.

"We need a statement ready for when the pictures go live. It's gotta be us putting it out there. Otherwise we'll look like assholes."

"So put a draft together."

"For the record, I'm still not on board," she said, typing furiously.

Jaha raised an eyebrow but didn't reply, instead looking to Kane. "What now?"

"We need to figure out communications. There's no way she's got any. The dish got blown off, the antennae almost killed her, and all the back-ups went off-planet with the MAV. So, we figure out a way to get in contact with her, and then we plan from there."

"Alright. That's your mission now. You use anyone you need, from any of the departments. Overtime isn't a problem. Get it done."

"Got it."

"Callie, I trust you'll make sure no one hears about this before we let them?"

"Right. I'll have a chat with this Maya kid, make sure she understands that secrecy is of paramount importance."

Jaha stood and flipped open his phone. "I'm certain you both are capable of handling this long enough for me to go to Washington? I'll be back later this afternoon."

"Why?" Callie asked without looking up from her computer.

"That's where Abby Griffin lives," Jaha said. "I owe her a personal explanation for this before it's plastered all over the news."

"Must be nice to get to tell someone their daughter's alive."

"Yeah, she's alive. And if my math's right, then she's doomed already. She's going to starve before we have any chance to help her. Abby's smart enough to figure that out on her own, so, yeah, help me find a universe in which this is good news."

"Shit," Callie hissed.

\--

"No signal? You've had twelve hours with twenty geniuses and a billion-dollar communications array and you've got _nothing_ for me? You can't get me on the phone with one man."

The two young men seated in front of Kane's desk shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

"She's got no radio," Jasper Jordan began, only to be interrupted by Kyle Wick.

"She's got a radio, Jasper. Like she'd be out there without one. That's not the problem. It's the dish. She needs the dish, otherwise the signal would need to be very strong-"

"-like, melting-her-head strong-" Jasper chipped in.

"-for her to receive it. We thought about using the satellites, since they're so close, but the math doesn't check out. Even SuperSurveyor 3, which would be the strongest one, would still need to be fourteen times more powerful-"

"Seventeen times," Jasper provided.

"Fourteen times," Wick repeated.

"Seventeen. You keep forgetting the amperage minimum for the-"

"Guys. Stop." Kane exhaled heavily. "I get the idea."

"Sorry," they said in unison.

"I apologize if I'm a bit grumpy, I'm running on about two hours of sleep."

"Completely understand," Wick said.

"Not a problem," Jasper said.

"Alright. Explain to me how one sandstorm managed to wipe out every communications connection we had to Ares 3."

"Failure of imagination. We never anticipated something like this."

"How many back-up systems does the mission have?"

"Four," Jasper said.

"Three," Wick said.

"No, it's four," Jasper corrected.

"No, he wants to know about back-up systems. That’s three," Wick insisted. "You're counting the main system."

"Oh, right, my bad. Three."

"Four in total, then, and we managed to lose them all. Care to explain?"

"Well, the primary comms were routed through the dish that kille-"

Wick elbowed Jasper hard in the ribs. "They were routed through the dish that injured Griffin. All the back-up systems went through the MAV."

"Yeah, the MAV was the communications hub, it could talk to _anything_ , and all those systems mean it'd need to be pretty much destroyed to stop transmitting. Only problem is, Commander Callaghan and the rest of the crew took it with them when they left."

"So four systems became one, and then that one broke," Wick finished.

"I noticed," Kane sighed. "And we never thought the Hab might need another system?"

"We never imagined anyone would be there _without_ an MAV," Wick replied.

"Yeah, I mean, what are the odds?"

Wick shook his head at Jasper. "Based on empirical evidence, one in three. Not that great."

"Guys. Enough. I need an idea, any idea. Half-formed, even. Just give me something to work with, alright?" They glanced at each other and nodded hesitantly, looking a little fearful.

"It might take a while," Wick said finally.

"You've got ninety minutes."

"Figures," Jasper groaned.

\--

"Thank you all for being here, especially on such short notice." Callie took her spot at the podium in the front of the room and scanned the faces in front of her. "We have an important announcement to get to, and if you could take your seats, I'll begin."

"What's this about, Callie?" A reporter asked. "Something going on with the Ark?"

"Take your seats, please," she repeated before taking a calming breath. The reporters continued to gossip amongst themselves, slowly finding chairs, and then finally settled down.

"This is a short but important announcement. I will not be taking any questions at this time. Any you may have once I'm finished speaking can be put forth at the full press conference that will occur in an hour." She placed her hands flat on the podium to steady herself. "We recently reviewed satellite imagery taken of the Ares 3 site on Mars. It has been confirmed that astronaut Clarke Griffin is, currently, still alive."

The room was utterly silent for two seconds, the horde of reporters staring up at Callie wide-eyed, and then it exploded with noise.

\--

"I'm sick of daily press conferences," Kane complained.

"I'm sick of _hourly_ press conferences," Callie countered, scanning the department heads crammed into the conference room. "Where the hell is Jaha?"

"Sorry I'm late," he said with a grin as her pushed into the room between them. He tugged a stack of flash cards from his pocket and stalked straight up to the podium.

"In the nine days since the announcement of Clarke Griffin's survival, we've received support from all corners. We're using this shamelessly in every way we can."

Jaha didn't smile, despite the nervous laughter from various figures in the crowd.

"At our request, the entire SETI network was focused on Mars yesterday in what turned out to be a fruitless attempt to catch any signals Griffin might have been transmitting. This attempt failed, but it's a demonstration of the strength of support we have at our backs.

"The public is highly engaged, and we're working hard to keep everyone informed about any developments. CNN has a daily half-hour segment dedicated to the Griffin issue. Members of our Media Relations team will be assigned to that program in order to ensure that information is spread as quickly and efficiently as possible.

"We've repositioned satellites to ensure we get more view time on the Ares 3 site, and we hope to catch an image of Griffin soon. If we are able to do so, we may then have the opportunity to draw conclusions as to her physical state.

"We know you have questions. How long does she have? When will she run out of food? How will we talk to her? The answers to these questions might not be what you want to hear.

"There are a lot of unknowns here, so I can't promise we'll be able to bring Clarke Griffin home safe. However, I _can_ promise that we're trying everything in our power to do so. This is the singular focus of NASA at this moment in time, and will be until such time as she is returned to Earth or confirmed dead on Mars. Thank you. Miss Cartwig will answer any further questions."

\--

"Nice speech," Kane commented as he entered Jaha's office.

"Meant every word."

"I know."

"What can I do you for, Marcus?"

"JPL has come up with an idea."

"I like ideas."

He gnawed on his lip. "Well, I don't like this one. But we could rescue her with Ares 4. It'd be a fucking risk and a half, but we've run it by the Ares 4 crew, and not only were they up for it, now they're pushing hard for it."

"Naturally. Astronauts are inherently crazy. And stupidly noble. So what's the idea?"

"It's still a bit rough, JPL is working out the kinks, but they think we can misuse an MDV to save her."

"Any reason we can't make something better before Ares 4 launches?"

"We're running out of time. We can't waste what's left building a custom ship. And at this point in time she's not going to live to see Ares 4, so it's still kind of a useless plan."

"But it's a plan. Tell me more about the MDV."

"JPL thinks they can strip it down, lose some of the weight, strap on some more fuel tanks, and then Ares 4 lands at the Ares 3 site. Efficiently, of course. Then they pick up Griffin and use a full burn on a crazy trajectory to get them over to the Ares 4 landing site. JPL says it'll take a lot of work but that they can make it happen, and I'm inclined to believe them."

"Where's the weight gonna come from? Don't we already make it as light as possible?"

Kane stared at the ground. "They're going to tear out safety and emergency equipment."

"Fantastic. So our only valid plan at this point in time is to risk six more people on a crackpot scheme."

"Yup. It'd be safer to just send down the pilot with the MDV, but the crew isn't about to give up their mission. They'd rather risk death."

"They're astronauts," Jaha said.

"They're astronauts," Kane confirmed.

"Well, that plan is insane and I'll never okay it."

"I figured as much. We'll try to fine-tune it a bit and see what we can come up with."

"Do that." Jaha tapped a pen absently on his desktop. "Any ideas so far as to how we're going to keep her alive for those four years?"

"No."

"Work on that, too. I don't like not knowing things." He spun in his chair and stared out the window to the twilight sky. "I wonder what that's like. All alone, thinking you've got no hope of rescue. What that must do to your psyche."

He glanced over at Kane. "I wonder what she's thinking right now."

** Log Entry: Sol 61 **

How can Aquaman control whales? They're not fish, they're mammals! Makes no fucking sense.


	8. Chapter 8

** Log Entry: Sol 63 **

I'm finished making water, and the potatoes are coming along pretty well. So, I'm not about to blow myself up, and nothing's tried to kill me in a couple weeks, and, in all honestly, it's getting a bit fucking boring up here. Enough so that I'm actually starting to enjoy Callaghan's stupid courtroom dramas. _Help_.

At least that means everything is stable, right?

Which means I've got all the time in the world to start thinking about longer-term survival. I need to get to Ares 4.

There's no question about it, that's the only way NASA will be able to put in an attempt save me. I'll have to save myself a bit first before they get here, too. If I can even get in contact with them.

If I can even make it the 3200 klicks to Schiaparelli Crater, where they're going to be landing. Their MAV's already there, even. I got to watch Anya land it remotely from orbit.

If you remember, it takes the MAV 18 months to make fuel, so NASA likes to give a little leeway (more like two and a half years leeway) in case the fuel reactions take longer than expected. So Ares 4 MAV arrived here the same time we did and Anya touched it down beautifully.

So I've got that going for me, and 3200km could be worse. I mean, it's not 10 000, and since the Hab's in Acidalia Planitia, which is the flattest part of Mars, the first fifth of the driving's gonna be nice and easy. Of course, the other 2550km are going to be on a crater-filled hellscape, but I'll deal with that when I get there. First things first, like the rover.

Obviously, I'm going to need to use one of the rovers. Like I would walk any further than I have to. Ha. I became an astronaut for the sole purpose of not having to support my own weight. Well, that and the plentiful M&Ms. Sorry, NASA, the plentiful 'candy-coated chocolate'. But, problem. The rovers aren't exactly equipped to handle that kind of journey.

There goes my boredom. Hello, new project. I'm going to have to go full scientific method on this bitch, become my own little NASA and figure out how I can travel far away from the Hab. At least I'm gonna have a whole lotta time to work that one out. About four whole years.

Some of it's pretty simple, even to a lowly botanist like me. I'm gonna have to take a rover, and since it's so fucking far I'm gonna need to stock up on supplies, too. The rover's got a 9000Wh battery, which'll last me about 35km on flat terrain, so I'm gonna need a way to recharge it, too, since the rover's don't have their own solar cells. I'll have to pillage the solar farm for a couple panels. And, last but not least, I'm gonna need to breathe, drink, and eat on my Oregon Trail adventure.

Hopefully on this little sojourn there'll be a lot more clean water and a lot less cholera.

Got one thing going for me, though. The tech specs for all my gear is right here in the computer.

Raven's gonna be super jealous, because for this to all work out, I'll need to pimp a rover. And, despite hours spent begging NASA higher-ups for free rein on ship adjustments, they never let her anywhere near the tech unattended. Probably too afraid of her blowing shit up, which is honestly a well-warranted fear. The rover's going to have to be a mobile Hab. I'll pick Rover 2 as my target. We've got a pretty tight bond, ever since I spent those two days shuttered up in it during the "Great Hydrogen Scare of Sol 37".

Jeez, it's kinda overwhelming to think about this all at once. So I'm just gonna dial it back and consider power for the moment being.

The mission had a 10 klick operational radius, and, since it's not really typical to take straight-line paths on excursion, the rovers are designed to go 35km on a full charge. That's presuming flat, reasonable terrain.

Ha.

Ha ha ha.

Ha ha ha ha ha come take a look at my topographic maps. That's not about to happen.

Step one here is to double my full-charge range. How, you may ask? I'm gonna rip out Rover 1's battery and patch it in to Rover 2. Voila!

Which leads me right into another complication. Heating.

Mars is really fucking cold. Seriously. _Really fucking cold_. So part of the battery power in the rover has to go towards heating. Normally, an EVA would be kept under five hours, but if I'm gonna go on this roadtrip, that means I'll be living in the rover 24.5/7. The heating eats up 400W/h, so keeping it on for that long would use up 9800W/day. Yeah. Over half my power supply, on a daily basis. Not exactly great. To put it lightly.

On the plus side, I've got a free generator right here: Me. That little evolutionary gift of warm-bloodedness is really gonna come in handy, and if I throw on some layers and take full advantage of the insulation, then I should be able to get away with fully deactivating the heater and using all that power for driving.

Some quick mental math tells me that it takes 200W to go a kilometre, so the full 18 grand will get me 90 klicks. That looks a lot better.

Like I said, I'm never going to get that on a full charge. Fucking Mars topography, and the _sand_. We were out in Arizona for training and, let me tell you, the only thing worse than piloting a rover in loose sand is unpacking your rations and realizing you're pretty much going to be eating a sand sandwich. Callaghan might've been able to choke hers down without even missing a beat, but the rest of us? Not so much. Screw sand. It's gonna knock a couple klicks off that 90 kilometre ballpark every day, so it'll take at least 35 days for me to get to Ares 4. I'm going to err more on the side of caution, which I know all you assholes are gonna laugh at because I literally almost blew myself up like two sols ago but you all can shut the hell up, and say it's probably gonna take me closer to 50. Which still works, I guess.

The rover tops out at blazing 25kph, so I'm not about to go breaking any landspeed records here, but it'll still only take me 3.5 hours to run down the battery. I'll just take the rest of the day to charge it up, and drive at twilight to get the most out of my current 13 hours of light.

I'll have to tear down a bit of my solar farm, which is actually a little heartwrenching. Lincoln and I spent out first couple days on the ground slaving over the 100 square metres of panels, and I'm going to have to go out and undo some of that hard work. It's gonna feel pretty shit, but what can I do?

NASA didn't pinch pennies here, either, because what I've got is the most expensive solar paneling in existence, functioning at a mind-blowing 10.2% efficiency. Doesn't sound like much, but Mars gets less sunlight than Earth, at 700W/sqm to the 1400W/sqm those greedy Earthlings get, so it's decent.

All told, I'm going to have to haul along 28 square metres of paneling, or 14 cells. Two stacks of seven should fit moderately well on the roof, and even though they'll stick out over the sides, it's not like I've got other vehicles to worry about. After my 3.5 hours on the road, I'll have to do an EVA to spread them out, then wait all day, rinse and repeat. That's mind-numbing to even _think_ about, but better bored than biting the dust.

That's all for today. My mission tomorrow? Pilfer Rover 1's battery and Frankenstein it onto Rover 2.

** Log Entry: Sol 64 **

There's two ways things can go up here on Mars. Easy, and hard. No in-betweens. Popping the battery out of Rover 1? Well, that was easy. I uncoupled two clamps and it dropped right into my lap. Figuratively. The thing is _huge_.

Which is where the hard part started. I could barely drag it, even with the Mars gravity, and even if I could easily lift it, there was nowhere for it to go on Rover 2. No room for it beside the other battery in the undercarriage, no room on the roof, no room in the cabin. Everything was a no-go.

Not that I doubted my abilities to find a solution for a second. I am, after all, the Martian MacGyver. Give me a couple square metres of extra Hab canvas (six, to be exact), and some really impressive resin, and I'll give you an answer.

We were given the 1x6 metre strip of spare canvas in anticipation of completely unrelated issues, like, say, a Hab breach. Protocol was to let the thing pop rather than dying trying to repair the tear, so we would have hidden out in the airlocks until we'd suited up, then gone out and used the resin to plaster the spare canvas down before reinflating.

Instead, I pulled out a pair of shears and hacked a quarter of that fabric up into some 10cm wide strips and slopped on some resin so form a pretty damn good harness, if I do say so myself. Let's just hope the Hab plays along and stays inflated, right?

I used the resin and straps to make two loops and slapped big patches of canvas on either end. Mars, meet saddlebags.

Jeez, I guess I really wasn't joking about this getting all Oregon Trail on me.

The resin sets right away, but I figured I might as well let it cure for another hour to get stronger. So I did. Then I pulled on my suit and headed to the rover.

I brought the battery up beside the rover and looped it up in one end of the harness before I tossed the other end up over the roof. I filled the empty pouch on the other side with rocks until the weights were pretty much equal, and then all it took was a couple tugs to bring the battery up.

Suck it, Mars.

I unplugged the old battery and plugged the new one in, then got all nice and settled in the rover and checked the systems. Everything was up to snuff, so it was about time for a bit of a test drive. I drove around the Hab two or three times, pulled some donuts and figure-eights and found a couple rocks to drive over to jostle the load, but the saddlebags held up perfectly. I might have fistpumped hard enough to punch the roof. Oh well, I was fucking psyched.

I considered splicing the second battery into the main power supply for a little while, but finally figured it wasn't all that necessary to have a continuous power supply. All it would take was a ten minute EVA when one battery ran out to hop out and connect the other one, and that movement would probably be good for me. So, my conclusion? Fuck it.

I then ditched the rover in favour of sweeping off the solar cell farm. Soon, I'd be looting it.

** Log Entry: Sol 65 **

The solar cells have turned out to be a hell of a lot less of a problem than the battery was. I guess it probably doesn't hurt that I'm the one that set them up in the first place.

Okay, Lincoln was there too. Fucking miss that guy. Always knew the right thing to do to get a grin out of all of us, no matter what kinda shit mood we were in. And he's not too hard on the eyes, either. None of the crew are, honestly. Not to be full of it, but the posters they printed of us outsold the Ares 1 and 2 crews combined. We're the hot kids who went to Mars.

Lincoln and I drilled those cells, and we drilled them good. Spent almost an entire week on them, and then drilled more whenever we had time to take a breath. It was mission critical, after all. If we screwed them up, we'd have to abandon ship. That ended up not really mattering for the rest of the guys, but luckily for me Lincoln and I are good at our jobs. Note that down, Lex, I'm aces at drilling.

Fuck me.

Do I even need to say it anymore? Probably should. Redact that shit. Please. It's the hormones talking.

Anyhow, while Lincoln and I were hard at work, the rest of the crew were pretty much just sitting around sipping tea and gossiping about the neighbours. Kidding. My Martian kingdom came down from the sky in boxes, so everyone else set up the Hab on Sols 1 and 2.

The cells are set up on a lattice at a 14 degree angle in order to maximize solar energy. All I had to do was take out a couple screws and then lift them off. Easy as pie. I hauled them over to Rover 2 and took a gander to figure out how I was gonna slap everything together.

We've got a rock sample container attached to the roof already, which is pretty much just a fancy name for a large canvas bag strapped up there. It's way too small to hold the cells, but I figured it'd do well as a cushion, so I didn't bother with removing it. All I had to do was separate the cells into two stacks and heft them up onto the roof, then tear apart more of my emergency Hab canvas to make straps so I could lash them down, and then I was done.

Not even noon yet. I've gotta be the hardest worker on all of Mars.

Farmer Clarke got an outing after lunch, since it's been 39 sols since I initially planted my potatoes. That means it's about time for me to reap and re-sow.

They're not exactly the biggest potatoes I've ever seen, but I didn't need them to be. They just had to be big enough to support new plants. So I dug them up, cut them into small pieces with one eye on each, then re-seeded them in new dirt. They're growing great up here with no parasites or competitors for nutrients, and if they keep this up I should be good for a long while. The way it's going, I might actually have a chance at surviving this.

After all the work today, I figured I deserved a break, so I went through Anya's entertainment drive. I'm not in the mood for Lexa's crap right now, and I've gone through pretty much everything on Raven's and O's. Lincoln's is good for white noise, mainly, because I don't understand half of it, and, well, we know what I've done with the other half playing, so...

You're probably wondering why I haven't fallen back on my own drive yet. Honestly? Because I'm a fucking idiot.

I left my drive up on the Ark, because I figured I'd be too busy for it, and because I'm usually good with whatever music is playing, and good at tuning it out if I'm not.

Look how well that turned out for me.

Well, at least getting stuck down here with every drive but mine gives me a hell of a lot of dirt on people. Anya, for instance.

Judging by this drive, she's gotta be the biggest fucking nerd I have ever met. _Buck Rogers in the 25th Century_ , the original BSG and Star Trek, _Mystery Science Theater 3000_ , the works. I mean, we're all astronauts, so by definition we're already pretty nerdy, but this goes way beyond that. Especially for a Marine who tries to play herself off as suave and badass.

Gotcha, Anya.

She's got a decent supply of novels on here, too. Hell yeah, Asimov.

** Log Entry: Sol 65 (2) **

I just woke up from a nightmare. I can't really remember it, but it was bad enough that I woke up in a cold sweat. From what I  _can_ remember, it probably wasn't a good idea for me to read  _Youth_ before bed.

Regardless of reading material, I'm as surprised as you are that it's taken two months for this to get to me. The last nightmare I had was on the Ark, a week or so out from Mars. I didn't realize it at the time, but I'd woken up screaming, loud enough the others could hear. I couldn't get back to sleep right away, so I pulled on a hoodie and wandered down to the gym.

Back when my dad was still… back when I was a kid, if I couldn't sleep we'd go for a run. No discussion, no judgment, just us and the pavement. Never failed to tire me out. So I'd headed to the gym, hoping a kilometre or two on the treadmill would be enough to settle me down.

I wasn't even four hundred metres in before Lexa hopped on the treadmill beside me, tugging her hair back into a ponytail as she ran. She didn't acknowledge me, and I was so, so grateful for that, because if she'd said anything I probably would've broken down crying, and nobody needs to see that. We just ran, put in a 5K in silence, and then she threw an arm around me, squeezed my shoulders, and we headed back to bed.

You don't realize how much contact you have with people until it's gone. Anya resting her hand on my shoulder, Raven punching me in the arm, Lincoln's bear hugs. Physical contact was exactly what I needed then, and I'd fucking kill for that now. Though that'd be counterproductive.

Instead I'll just put in some pushups and then try and get back to sleep. Hopefully undisturbed.

Being stranded here is bad enough as it is, without adding in nightmares about shuttle disasters and closed casket funerals.


	9. Chapter 9

** 61 Days to Launch **

Octavia was a flirty drunk, and a lightweight, though Clarke thought it probably didn't help that before that night they'd all been dry coming up on two years. The doctor had somehow managed to convince Lincoln to dance, either that or bodily dragged him out into the middle of the floor, she wasn't quite sure which.

Lexa pushed her straw around the rim of her glass as she watched the pair, then twisted her mouth. "I'm going to have to keep an eye on that, aren't I."

It wasn't a question, but Clarke still hummed her agreement as Octavia fisted her hand in the front of Lincoln's shirt and tugged him closer. She glanced across the booth to where Anya and Raven had their heads together, no doubt continuing the argument about orbital tracking systems they'd been engaged in all week, then leaned closer to Lexa. "You have to admit, they'd make a cute couple."

"Yeah, if they wanted to lose their suits over it." Lexa dropped the straw and tightened her grip on her glass, looking anywhere but Clarke as she raised it to her lips and emptied it in a single gulp. "If they do anything, I'll have to report them."

Clarke thanked their waitress as she set fresh drinks in front of them, cocking an eyebrow as Lexa threw hers back without even a second thought. "You'd really turn them in?" she asked hesitantly, fiddling with the stem of her glass. "Even if all they did was kiss?"

"It's regulation," she replied, raising the tumbler to her mouth again and then narrowing her eyes in her confusion at finding it empty. "Have t' follow rules, Griffin. Even if they're inconvenient. Else everything'll fall apart."

Clarke took a sip of her drink, then dabbed a stray droplet from the seam of her lips with her thumb. "You finding the rules inconvenient, Callaghan?" she husked, smirking at the blush rushing up Lexa's cheeks. "Got your eye on someone?"

Lexa rubbed at the back of her neck and ducked her head as Anya slipped out of the opposite end of the booth and swaggered towards them.

"I'm gonna go grab us a couple more drinks, you guys want something?"

Clarke smiled and shook her head. "Nah, Peters, I'm alright, thanks."

"Callaghan?"

Lexa took a moment too long to get her gaze focused on the pilot, then shrugged and replied with, "Eighteen more, please, thank you."

Anya bit her lip as a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I'm gonna take that as a no, then," she laughed, before turning and making her way up towards the bar.

Clarke wheeled in her seat, eyes wide and grin set. "Commander, you're drunk."

"I am not," she enunciated, clear and precise and far too careful, blushing from the collar of her jacket to the tips of her ears. 

"You _are_ ," Clarke crowed. "The great Commander Callaghan, downed by a couple fingers of whiskey. Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

Lexa sighed heavily and buried her face in her crossed arms. She mumbled something, her words muffled by her sleeves, and Clarke poked at her shoulder until she lifted her head. "Wha?"

"Wanna repeat whatever you just said?"

"I'm-" she punctuated her sentence with a yawn pressed into the crook of her elbow, "-tired."

"Never would've guessed," Clarke laughed, ruffling Lexa's hair and easily avoiding the half-assed swat she aimed at her hand. "Time to go?"

"Mmm."

"Okay, come on, up you get."

Raven looked up from her beer when she wrapped her arm around Lexa's waist and hauled her up off the bench seat. She motioned towards the door with her free hand and Raven quirked an eyebrow. "We're going to head out," she said, raising her voice in order to be heard over the thundering bass.

Raven raised her beer to them. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Griff," she replied, before grinning at the glare she received in return.

" _Is_ there anything you wouldn't do?"

"Touché," she laughed, before she turned her attention to Anya as the pilot slipped back into the booth with a fresh round of drinks. Clarke gave Anya a nod that was returned in kind and accompanied by a tight-lipped smirk, then tightened her grip on Lexa's hip and helped her towards the door.

"Where're we going?" Lexa mumbled as they reached the sidewalk, burying her face in the crook of Clarke's neck, and Clarke shivered as her lips brushed across sensitive skin.

"It's time to get a taxi."

"T'go home?" Clarke nodded, and she could feel Lexa's scowl against her neck. "'S a waste of money."

"We're two miles from base, and we're drunk. We're taking a taxi."

"You're not the boss of me," was the only response she got, and it was tossed back over Lexa's shoulder as she broke out into a stumbling run. Clarke swore under her breath and hurried to catch up, the remnants of the night's debauchery sloshing heavily in her stomach.

"Callaghan, slow down!" She only just managed to grab Lexa by the elbow when she tripped over her own feet and plunged face-first towards the ground, Clarke's grip stopping her fall just short of disaster.

It took a long moment for Lexa to get her feet back underneath her, and then she pressed her forehead against Clarke's shoulder and sighed heavily. "Let's call a taxi," she muttered, glaring up at Clarke through hooded eyes when her words were met with a laugh. "What's funny?"

Clarke shook her head and slung her arm around Lexa, the image of a elementary school-aged Commander lording over a playground with a relentless intensity still drifting through her head. She steered her back towards the rank of taxis and sighed heavily when Lexa snuggled tighter against her, sending her stumbling sideways a step before she could adjust to the change. "C'mon, boss. Let's go home."

She managed to shuffle Lexa into the back of a cab and climb in beside her, giving the dorm address to the driver as Lexa draped herself over her with a yawn. "Don't fall asleep on me yet, I'm not about to carry your drunk ass up to your room."

"But 's a _nice_ ass," Lexa complained, butting her head against Clarke's bicep until she relented and lifted her arm, letting Lexa curl into her side and getting a contented hum in response.

"Whatever you say," she replied, steadfastly ignoring the way her stomach flipped when Lexa's hand landed at her hip.

"But not as nice as yours," came the quiet confession, and Clarke let her head fall back against the seat with a groan.

"Cool it, Romeo," she bit out through clenched teeth, her eyes screwed shut while Lexa moved against her side, every shift sending shivers down her spine.

"Why? 's the truth!"

Clarke heaved a sigh of relief as the car came to a stop, and she all but threw cash at the driver as she scrambled out of the backseat. Lexa stared after her, unmoving, and Clarke rolled her eyes and held out a hand to her. "Come on, out with you. Never would've pegged you as such a lightweight, Little Miss Army Strong."

Lexa stumbled up out of the car and towards the front doors of the dorm, digging frantically through her pockets as she tripped forwards. "I'm not a lightweight," she shot back, spilling change into the grass. "I'm a welterweight."

"Sure thing, boss," she grinned, swiping the door lock and holding it open for Lexa to shamble through. "Win lots of belts, did you?"

"All Army champ three years running." She dropped to the balls of her feet, throwing punches at shadows before raising her hands victoriously.

Clarke let out a low whistle. "That's damn impressive. C'mon, Rocky, let's get you to bed."

Once they'd reached Lexa's door, it took her another minute to dig her key from her pocket and fit it into her lock, but she slipped into practiced routine once she'd passed the threshold, toeing off her shoes and reaching blindly for the light before turning to look at Clarke.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hey yourself." Clarke nudged Lexa back towards her bed. "You want pyjamas, or are you going to sleep in khakis?"

"They're comfy," Lexa relied through a yawn, unzipping her jacket and letting it drop to a puddle at her feet. She stared at it for a moment, then looked back up and leaned in towards Clarke.

Her heart stopped.

She wet her lips nervously, glanced up at Lexa through her eyelashes.

Lexa pressed a sloppy kiss to her cheek, her lips drifting far too close to the corner of Clarke's mouth for comfort, before slumping down onto her bed. Her head lolled to the side as she gazed up at Clarke with a grin, and the blonde could have sworn there were stars in her eyes.

"Thanks for getting me home, Griffin."

"No worries, anything for my Commander." Clarke shoved lightly at Lexa's shoulder, and she toppled flat on her back. "Get some rest, okay? I'll see you bright and early for our 7AM run."

The only response the thought of that torture warranted, apparently, was a groan as Lexa burrowed under her duvet. Clarke scrounged up a glass of water and bottle of aspirin and set them on the bedside table, then paused at the door with one hand on the lightswitch. "Goodnight, Lexa," she murmured to the still cocoon of blankets, before edging the door open and slipping outside.

She was sure she didn't imagine the faint "'Night, Clarke" that came just as the latch clicked home.

She pressed her back to the wall beside Lexa's door and let her head thud back against the plaster. Her hand drifted to the corner of her mouth of its own accord. She groaned.

She was fucked.

That was her professional opinion.

100% fucked.


	10. Chapter 10

** Log Entry: Sol 66 **

I popped out of bed this morning brimming with excitement. Why, you ask? Because it's time for some missions.

NASA has free rein to name their missions after gods and stars and constellations and stuff, so I'm gonna follow their lead. All rover missions will hereafter be known as "Sirius" missions. Get it, guys? Well, if you don't, you can fuck off.

Sirius 1 will go underway tomorrow.

I'll head out with fully-charged batteries and the solar cells on the roof, then drive them dry and see how far I get. Simple.

Contrary to what's probably popular opinion at this point, I'm not a complete idiot. I won't drive straight away from the Hab. I'll drive a half klick track, back and forth, so I'll always be in walking distance of home in case anything goes wrong.

I'll charge up both batteries today so I'm ready for my little scenic drive tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm stocking up on CO2 filters and as many clothes as I can get on, since I'll be going about this 3.5 hour mission with the heater off.

** Log Entry: Sol 67 **

Sirius 1 is over.

To be a bit more accurate, I aborted it, but it wasn't a _total_ failure. Despite the fact it only lasted an hour. It's what we in the science field like to call a "learning experience".

I headed out in my rover to a flat bit of ground about a klick away from the Hab, and drove up and down the 500m stretch of dirt a couple times.

It didn't take long for me to realize that was a pretty shit idea. The rovers are built like freaking tanks, and driving them over a couple times is enough to compress the dirt and get a solid path. I got good solid ground, yeah, but I also got pretty inapplicable data, considering on my sojourn I'm gonna be slugging through loose sand.

I changed it up after that, dicking around randomly while making sure I stayed within a safe distance of the Hab. That energy efficiency would have provided much more realistic data, had I been able to last longer than an hour.

Turns out, when you disable the heater in a metal vehicle in sub-zero temperatures, things get pretty damn cold pretty damn quickly. I mean, as anyone who's lived in colder climbs would know well, the rover's pretty much an icebox when you first get in. Then it heats up quite fast, as long as you allow it to.

But if you don't?

I was fine for a while, since I'd swaddled myself in all those layers. My body heat and the rover's top-notch combined to keep things at a bearable temperature for about an hour. Thing is, though, no insulation is perfect, and as my body heat leeched out, shit got really cold. And I mean, _really cold_.

It only took an hour for my hands to freeze up enough that I didn't really trust myself to keep control of the rover, and I could barely hear myself think over the chattering of my teeth. I barely lasted sixty minutes in the rover. There was no way in hell I'd be able to last somewhere near sixty days to Schiaparelli with this setup.

I flipped the heater back on, waited a bit until I got the feeling back in my fingers, then sulked a whole lot as I drove the rover back to the Hab. Damn thermodynamics, always messing up my great ideas.

There's no way I can use the heater and still get a decent driving range out of my batteries. Even if I turned it down and suffered through some cold, I'd still be losing a quarter of my juice to a luxury.

I could survive as a meat popsicle, right?

I'm going to have to put some thought into it, and what better companion to help generate stupid ideas than the King of Bad Decisions himself, Peregrin Took.

In other news, I'm 95% sure Anya's got literally every single thing Tolkien ever wrote on her drive. _Nerd_.

** Log Entry: Sol 68 **

So. I came up with a solution.

Remember when I played the arsonist, set fire to rocket fuel, and almost blew myself up? Yeah, this plan is a hell of a lot more dangerous than that.

If my mom or Lexa ever catch wind of this little adventure, I'm going to get fucking smacked.

I mean, odds are I'm going to die up here without ever seeing them again anyways, so what's it matter if I take some _fucking huge_ risks to try and get home? Right? Right?

Wrong. This is about to exponentially increase the danger of my cross country trip.

I'm going to use the RTG.

That's a pretty benign acronym for a fucking terrifying piece of equipment.

Stands for Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator. To dumb that down a bit, it's a big box of plutonium. You know, the stuff they put in nuclear bombs. Well, not that exact isotope. That one's too every day for NASA. The one I've got? It's way more fucking dangerous.

Plutonium-238 is an incredibly unstable isotope. It's so radioactive that it gets red-hot all on its lonesome. Call me a bit paranoid, but cuddling up to a material that can _literally fry an egg_ with radiation is maybe not the smartest idea I've ever had.

But it's the only one I've had, so I'm going to roll with it.

The RTG holds the plutonium, takes the heat from the radiation, and then turns it into electricity. You're probably thinking that sounds a bit like a reactor, but you'd be wrong. I can't dial that up or down, it's just a natural process at the atomic level.

The RTGs have been around NASA since the 60s, and they've been used to power unmanned probes cause they're a hell of a lot better than solar power, what with the whole working day and night thing and being unaffected by storms. Not so much with the radioactive thing, but that's why they were on unmanned missions.

At least, until the Ares Program kicked off.

Hmm, why wouldn't NASA want to put large RTGs beside astronauts? Oh, right, because of the whole hot-ball-of-radioactive-death thing. NASA's got a vested interest in keeping their astronauts alive, after all.

Well, I might be exaggerating a _tiny_ bit. They've instituted the usual host of safety precautions to ensure our skin didn't melt off our bones if there was a mishap with the RTG. The plutonium is in a whole bunch of sealed and insulated pellets that will prevent radiation leakage even if something like, say, the outer container cracking open were ever to occur. So, the risk they faced in putting a large RTG on the Ares missions was calculated, and they took it.

Like the majority of the things on this mission, the RTG is all about the MAV. It's the number one most important component of this mission. If the MAV went down, the entire Ares mission would be scrubbed. After all, it can't be replaced or worked around. If a crew came down and it was messed up, they'd be marooned.

Imagine how horrible that would be.

Solar cells require a hell of a lot of maintenance if you're going to use them in the long-term, especially in dusty and sandy environments. But, since the MAV's gotta sit on Mars for a couple years, making fuel all on its lonesome, solar cells aren't ideal. It needs power so NASA can monitor the systems, and you can probably picture how the director would react if they had to scrub a multi-billion dollar mission just because a solar cell was dirty and they lost contact with the MAV. Reliability is key. So the MAV comes down with an RTG chock full of 2.6kg of plutonium-238. That bad boy gives off almost 1500 watts of heat, which in turn can provide about 100 watts of electricity. That's all the MAV needs to run until an Ares crew arrives.

You probably think I'm gonna use it to run the heater.

Nah, brah. Why the hell would I use something that's red-hot on its own to power a crappy little space heater? I can just get that heat right from the source! It's gonna be so toasty warm in the rover that I'll probably have to tear out some insulation just to keep from getting heat stroke.

For some weird reason, NASA is a bit antsy about keeping a radioactive box of death around its astronauts when it's no longer necessary, so as soon as the rovers were unpacked and we'd made sure the MAV was chock full of fuel, Callaghan was tasked with dumping that shit far, far away from the Hab. Four klicks out, if you wanna be exact. She popped it right out of the MAV, drove out, and buried it.

The dump location wasn't specified in mission parameters, so I'm all set for a little scavenger hunt tomorrow. I've got two clues to help me out. Lincoln and I were setting up the solar array when Lexa shipped out, so I know she headed due south, and the burial site is conveniently marked with a 3m high bright green flag. That's meant to stand out against the environment and warn us off approaching it.

Time to break some more rules.

Since I tore Rover 1 apart, I'm going to have to use Rover 2 for my trip. I can turn this into another test mission and test out my makeshift saddlebags and harness, see how well they make out on a bit of a longer journey.

Sirius 2 will depart bright and early tomorrow morning.

** Log Entry: Sol 69 **

Ha, 69.

Shit.

I've been alone for nine weeks.

That's… yeah…

I found the RTG today.

It was easy-peasy, I drove four klicks south and couldn't miss the flag. Lexa planted it right on top of a little hill, probably to make sure we could all see it and avoid it easily. I went right ahead and did the exact opposite.

The RTG gave off warmth that I could feel even through my gloves as I dug it up, which really threw me off, especially when I considered that the heat was the product of radiation. That wasn't enough to stop me, though. Figuring there was no point in sticking it on the roof and then having to test it out later, I picked up the cylinder and brought it into the cabin of the rover with me.

I turned off the heater and headed back to the Hab. Things got really hot, really fast, but I'm not about to complain. Even though the cabin hit 37C in the ten minutes it took to drive home. All that meant was it'd definitely work for me.

Another positive? All that Hab canvas held together beautifully despite the relatively uneven transit, and when I checked the solar cells and battery over after I got back, I found it hadn't even shifted.

Sirius 2 was an all-around success!

Then I had to get some prep done for Sirius 3. Can't stop, won't stop working.

I spent the remainder of the day tearing my rover apart. Sorry NASA. The cabin is made of metal and lined with insulation, which is covered by hard plastic. I used a super scientific and sophisticated method to crack the plastic (hammer), and the same to really, really carefully remove the foam insulation (again, hammer). After that, I suited up and removed the RTG to let the internal temperature drop before I continued with my experimenting.

After it'd reached resting temperature, I brought the RTG back in, and watched the thermometer click upwards. It took longer to heat up this time than when I was coming back to the Hab, but still hit homeostasis at a sweltering degree.

I continued my high-tech modification to pull out some more insulation (hammer), then checked again. Repeat ad infinitum. Or, at least, until the RTG could barely keep up with the heat loss. Well, actually, it was losing that battle, and over time the heat would slowly leech out.

But, never fear, I had a solution to that. I used some highly advanced construction techniques (duct tape) to make a square out of some of the removed pieces of foam. If worst came to worst, I could just tape that to one of the bare patches of metal and the RTG would be on top again.

Tomorrow, Sirius 3.

Well, more like Sirius 1.1, but I do what I want, and what I want is to call it Sirius 3.

** Log Entry: Sol 70 **

I'm back to doing my log in the rover, only this time it's not because I've screwed something up in the Hab and had to run for cover. Instead, I'm partway through Sirius 3 and everything's going great.

I set out early this morning and strapped myself into the rover to drive laps around the Hab. Not exactly the most exciting course. I tried my best to stick to fresh dirt, to simulate travel conditions, and after just under two hours the first battery died. I took a short EVA to switch up the cables then got back behind the wheel and clocked another hour and a bit. All told, I hit 81K in three and a half hours.

I'm not about to break any land-speed records, but it's still a decent pace considering the equipment I've got. Of course, the landscape around the Hab and the rest of Acidalia Planitia is pretty flat, so I've got no way to estimate what my efficiency will be when I hit rougher ground on my way to Ares 4.

I could've put a couple more kilometres behind me by running the batteries all the way down, but I kinda need life support while they're charging. The batteries run the oxygen pump, which pushes the CO2 into the filter to be absorbed. It's mildly important, to put it lightly.

The solar cells are a bitch to set up, since they're such an awkward size to move. I'd set up half of them before I realized they're hardy enough for me to drag them and that sped things up a lot.

Now I've just got twelve hours to dick around with some e-books waiting for the batteries to recharge. Oh, I said thirteen earlier? Well, screw you, I know that, but circumstances have changed.

The 'g' in RTG doesn't stand for Griffin, though after I get back they should probably change it in memory of my awesomeness. It stands for generator. Relative to what the rover eats up, it's a tiny amount of power, but it's still 100 Watts. Which, as it turns out, is enough to cut the charge time by an hour. So why wouldn't I use it?

If NASA knew how much I was screwing around with the RTG, they'd probably be quaking in their boots, or huddling under their desks in fear.

So let's just keep this between you and me.

** Log Entry: Sol 71 **

Like I said, because I'm super smart and great at calculating things, it took twelve hours to get the batteries all charged up, and then I jetted straight back home at a snail's pace. Yes, that's an oxymoron. Whatever, sue me.

It's time to plan Sirius 4 now. This is the big one. I'm thinking this is gonna be a multi-day field trip out into the great unknown. All I want is some snacks for the road, a sweet mix of tunes, and a partner to ride shotgun. What I actually need, on the other hand, hits a slightly different set of points.

The power and battery problem seems to be set, and the rover's huge so there's a ton of space to store my chow. Water's an even simpler issue, I'll just need two litres a day to feel okay.

On my long voyage I'm going to have to bring the Oxygenator, but I'm really hesitant to mess around with it this early on, so I'm going to stick with filters for now. Those aren't problematic either, as I started out with 1500 hours of filters, and another 720 for emergency. After the shit that went down with Apollo 13, NASA got their heads out of their asses (at least somewhat) and made it so all systems use these standard filters. I've only used up 131 hours on my EVAs, leaving me with a solid 2089, or a full 87 days' worth. Solid.

The rover's meant to support three people for two days, so I've got about 7 days' worth of O2 on board. That's not going to last me, but I'm just smothered in positives, because the rover O2 tanks are on the inside. That's cause of the pressure difference between the Martian surface (1/90th of Earth's atmospheric pressure) and the rover interior (1 atm). Having the tanks inside means there's less of a pressure differential to deal with, and it also means I can pop more O2 tanks on board and equalize them with the rover tanks without doing an EVA.

Today I dragged on of the Hab's two 25L tanks out to the rover. Thanks to all NASA's abacus work, they're figured out a human needs 588L of oxygen a day. Compressed liquid O2? It's a thousand times denser than gaseous O2, so I've got at least 42 days' worth. Which, Martian gods willing, will be enough.

I'd knock on wood if I hadn't burned it already.

Sirius 4 will take 20 days.

I know, I know, I just got settled down on my farm, with my plants to look after, am I even healthy enough to make that trip, Clarke you need to follow your curfew, blah blah blah. (Mom and Dad, do you even understand how big of a nerd I was in high school, you didn't even need to give me a curfew to get me to stay in)(This is where one of those assholes would chip in to say I'm still a nerd, and, guys, I've seen your entertainment drives, you can't say shit). But, yeah, I'm a grown adult, capable of making good decisions, and this mission is for a very important goal. And the trip to Ares 4 is going to take at least 40 days. This'll be a good thing to measure that up against.

The biggest problem with this is my potatoes. The Hab can pretty much look after itself, but my little babies aren't quite so self-sufficient yet. I'll get the dirt really heavy with water and turn off the Atmo-Reg so the water stays in the air. It's gonna be humid as hell, and everything's going to be dripping wet, but it should be enough to keep my kids healthy and that's all I need.

So I've gotta deal with the CO2, since my taters need it to breathe. I know I produce it, circle of life and all that shit, but in large concentrations it'll kill me, and I don't have any way to store it. I'm gonna have to fill the Hab and book it out of there.

The MAV fuel plant has got my back again on this one. It collects CO2 from the atmosphere, and my kids aren't quite as greedy as me, so a 10L tank of compressed liquid CO2 should do the trick. It'll take less than a day to gather that much, and then I'll vent it into the Hab.

That's the plan, Stan. Vent the CO2. Turn off the Atmo-Reg and Oxygenator. Dump the water. Ditch the Hab.

Sirius 4, man. Wow. I'm a damn fucking Martian pioneer in the field of rover research.

One small step for Clarke Griffin, one large step for rover-kind.


	11. Chapter 11

"Good morning, and welcome to today's Griffin Report on CNN," Diana Sydney said to the camera. "We've seen a lot of activity over on Mars in the past few days, with Griffin making a number of EVAs. What is their purpose? How are NASA's rescue plans coming along? And what impact will this have on Ares 4?

"We have Dr. Marcus Kane, the Director of Mars Missions for NASA, in studio with us today to help shed some light on these topics. Thanks for coming in, Dr. Kane."

"Always a pleasure, Diana," he replied, his lips curling towards a grimace before he schools them back to neutral. If he hated anything more than the unending press conferences, it was the relentless invitations to feature on television spots.

"Dr. Kane, I think it'd be safe to say Clarke Griffin's the most-watched woman in the galaxy, wouldn't you agree?"

"The most watched by NASA, for sure. All twelve of the satellites we have orbiting Mars are aimed at Ares 3 whenever her site is in view, and the European Space Agency has been kind enough to do the same with both of theirs."

"And how often do you receive those images?"

"We get them every couple of minutes, though sometimes the gaps are larger, as the satellite orbits allow. All told, it's enough for us to be able to track her movements and extrapolate from there."

"What can you tell us about these recent EVAs?"

"From what we can tell, she's been putting a large amount of work into modifying one of the rovers to ready it for a long journey. She's taken the battery from one rover and attached it to the other, and then taken solar cells from the array and tied them up on the roof of the rover."

"She went for a bit of a drive after that, did she not?" Diana prompted.

Kane nodded. "She drove around aimlessly for about an hour before she called it a day and returned to the Hab. It seems as though she was testing it out. Two days later she took a four kilometer drive out and back. Probably another incremental test. And over the last few days we've seen her in and out of the Hab, stocking the rover up with supplies."

"The opinion of many analysts is that Griffin's only has hope of rescue if she makes it to the Ares 4 launch site. Do you think that's the conclusion she's come to?"

"In all likelihood," he said with a shrug. "She's got no idea we have eyes on her. In her mind, Ares 4 has to be the only possible solution."

"Do you think that's where she's headed? With the test runs and stocking up of supplies, it does seem like she's readying the rover for an extended journey."

"Hopefully not," he said grimly. "It's far too early for that. The only thing at the Schiaparelli site is the Ares 4 MAV; nothing else has landed. She'd have no supplies and no Hab at the end of a very difficult journey, and she'd be leaving the relative safety of the Ares 3 site to make the trip."

"Can you think of a reason why she might risk it?"

"Communication. Once she gets to the MAV, she'll be able to use it to make contact with NASA."

"And that would be a positive, would it not?"

"Having communication with her would be _fantastic_. But the trip to the Ares 4 site is over 3200km, and it's incredibly dangerous. If we were able to get in touch with her, we'd tell her that we'd much rather she stayed put."

"She can't remain at Ares 3 forever, though, can she?" she asked. "There has to be a point at which she'll need to leave for the MAV."

"Actually, that might not be necessary. We've got the team at JPL working on making modifications to the MDV, so that it could make a short flight to the Ares 4 site after it lands."

"Hmm." Diana glanced down at her notes. "From what I'd heard, that idea had been rejected as being far too dangerous."

"The initial plan they laid out for us, maybe, but since then they've been hard at work coming up with safer options."

"Safer options? And with the Ares 4 launch date only three and a half years away, will your team have time to make these modifications and ensure their safety?"

"I can't give you a positive answer, but if you'll recall, we went from nothing to a lunar lander in seven years. If there's anyone that can do it, they're at JPL."

"Good point," Diana replied. "With all that in mind, what are Clarke's odds?"

Kane shrugged. "No idea. But we're doing everything in our power to try and bring her home alive."

\--

"So, what'd you think of the interview?"

Callie winced. "You probably should stay away from saying things like 'bring her home alive'. All it does is remind people that there's a distinct possibility she might die."

"What's the likelihood they'd forget that to begin with?"

"You're the one who asked my opinion. If you're not going to take my advice, go fuck yourself."

"Jeez, Callie, with a tongue like that how'd the hell you end up as NASA's Communications Director."

"I've got no fucking idea," she replied, grinning.

"Can we get back on topic, guys? I don't mean to be rude, but I've got a flight to catch back to LA in less than three hours." Indra Sumati, Director of JPL, tapped on the stack of folders in front of her. "Is Jaha going to make an appearance or what?"

"Settle down, Indra," Callie said. "We've all got shit we could be doing."

Gustus Frommelt, the Hermes Flight Director, slipped into the room and glanced around the table before taking a seat beside Maya. "Gustus," he said, holding a hand out for her to shake. "I should know you, but I'm drawing a blank."

"Uh, I'm Maya. Maya Vie. I just work in SatCon."

"You're not the Director, though?"

"No, just work there. Kind of a nobody."

Kane looked over at Gustus. "She's in charge of the imagery of Griffin. Tracking her, that kind of thing. She's the one who first noticed she was alive."

He arched an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Alright. Seems like I owe you thanks, then. Good on you for picking that out."

Maya looked up from the table for a moment to give him a small smile.

Jaha appeared in the door. "Sorry for keeping you waiting, but let's get started." He slid into the seat at the head of the table and turned his attention to Kane. "Any news on Griffin?"

"She's alive and well, no change from the email I sent," he took a peek at his watch, "two hours ago."

"Cool it, Kane. I've been busy. You figure out what the hell she wants the RTG for?"

"We're thinking heat, probably. If she's looking to use the rover for longer journeys, she's going to need to use less battery power to keep her warm. That's where the RTG comes in, it'll keep the heat up in the rover without draining half of her juice. It's actually kind of brilliant."

"What are the chances she kills herself with it?"

"Not really that high, to be honest. If the outer container stays intact, it doesn't pose any danger at all, and then even if it cracks, there's still insulation around the plutonium inside."

"But if the pellets break open too?"

"She'll be fried."

Jaha nodded sharply. "The public figure out she dug it up yet?"

"Not so far." Callie picked up her pen, twirling it through her fingers as she leaned back in her seat. "The pictures are in the public domain, sure, but that doesn't mean we've got to divulge our analysis of them. Nobody's figured out what they mean as of yet."

"Good, good. How're the MDV plans coming along, JPL?"

"We've had a plan," Indra said. "You rejected it."

"Dr. Sumati," Jaha warned.

"Hey, I could just as easily be in LA right now. You're the one who made me come out here."

"Indra, the MDV."

"It wasn't designed for anything we want to make it do. Not the liftoff, not the lateral flight. Adding in all that extra fuel we'd need to do that isn't any help. We need a bigger engine, and sure, I'm capable of that, but not under these time constraints. So we need to strip a lot of weight off of it."

"Am I just to assume you've got a plan for that, or are you going to tell me?"

"Well, if you'd _give_ me a moment," she seethed, glowering across the table at him. "The weight's not a huge factor on the descent, so we can keep the structure the same for that. All we've got to do is make the heat shield and outer hull removable, and then the crew could ditch the weight at the Ares 3 site and have a lighter ship for the journey to Ares 4. We're crunching the numbers right now, but I think it could work."

"Good, good. Keep me updated." He turned to Maya. "Welcome to the big leagues, Vie."

"Sir."

"I know we've got several gaps in our imaging cycles, but how long is the largest of those?"

"There's a seventeen minute gap every forty-one hours. That's how the orbits work out."

"You've got an immediate answer, I like that," he said with a pointed look towards Indra. The JPL Director sneered back at him once he'd turned away. "I'd like that gap going down to four minutes even more. I'm turning all control over satellite trajectories and orbital adjustments over to you, and I want that done as quickly as possible."

"Yes, sir," Maya replied, her mind racing as to find a solution and her heart sinking when she realised just how difficult that was going to be.

Gustus knocked once on the table, and everyone's attention snapped to him. "Can we get to the crux of the matter?"

Jaha nodded. "You said in your email you had something important to discuss?"

"Oh, you're reading Gus' emails but not mine?" Kane laughed, winking at Maya. She smiled back and settled more comfortably in her seat.

Jaha pointedly ignored the comment. "What's the issue?"

"What I'd like to know," he growled, his hands curling into fists on the tabletop, "is how long you're gonna make me keep this from the Ares 3 crew. They all think Griffin's dead. That has been, and will continue to be, a huge drain on morale."

Jaha looked to Kane.

"Gus, we discussed this-"

"No. You and Thelonious discussed it," Gustus interrupted. "I disagreed. Loudly. They think they lost their crewmate. You saw those fucking eulogies, they're devastated."

"You think it's gonna get any better when they find out that they _abandoned_ her?" Kane asked, rising halfway out of his seat. "You think that's gonna make them feel better?"

Gustus stood and poked the table with the tip of his finger. "I'm the one who's in contact with them, I'm the one who knows what makes them tick, and I'm saying that they deserve to know. You think they can't handle that? That they'll make some grave mistake the moment they learn the news? You think Commander Callaghan can't handle the truth?"

"If it's a matter of morale," Kane said, "then I don't think you're considering all the emotional ramifications that revelation would have. Callaghan needs to _\- they_ need to concentrate on making it home safely, and we need to give them every opportunity to do so."

"I know what 'emotional ramifications' _not_ telling them will have. It's not your call, Marcus. I'm the one who decides what's best for the crew, and I feel like I'm the only one in this room who's got that in mind. Come on, Sumati, you've got to have an opinion."

"I'm not paid to have an opinion about this," Indra replied with a shrug. "Don't pull me into this fight. This is between you and the director."

All eyes snapped to Jaha, who stood and drew himself up to full height. "Gus, I dislike this just as much as you, but I'm still with Marcus on it. Telling them right now is only going to make the situation worse. As soon as we've got a plan in place, though, as soon as we've got something that's going to get her home, we'll tell them. There's got to be some shred of hope for her or there's no point revealing this."

"This is bullshit, complete bullshit-"

"Boys." Callie dropped her pen on the table and spread her glare from face to face. "That's _enough_."

Jaha settled back into his chair. "So JPL is on the rescue side of this whole equation. Now we've got to figure out how we get Griffin to that landing date. Marcus, thoughts?"

Kane flipped open the folder in front of him and sifted through the pages. "We're almost certain the Hab's got the longevity to make it four years, especially if we've got Griffin fixing any of the issues that might arise. The larger concern is the food issue. I'm not going to sugar-coat it. She _will_ starve to death in just over a year if we don't get supplies to her."

"Could we do an Ares 4 presupply? Just land it at Acidalia Planitia instead?"

"That's the conclusion we've ended up at," Kane confirmed, "but we weren't supposed to launch those for another year. They're not ready.

"It's eight months for a supply probe to get to Mars when we're in the proper windows, and right now's not the best time for it. We'd have to tack on another month of travel. If she's portioning her rations the way we've calculated, she's got three hundred and fifty days' worth left. That gives us _three months_ to build a probe, and JPL hasn't started on that yet because it wasn't supposed to be in the cards for another six."

"It's going to be tight," Indra said. "Building the probe is a six month process. We're set up for an assembly line to put together a bunch of them at once, not to get one done quickly."

"We're asking a lot, but-" Jaha started.

"We'll get it done," Indra said. "All you have to do is find me the money to pay for all that overtime."

Kane flipped to the next page in his folder. "There's the matter of the booster. It's a shit time to get to Mars, and the only way that's happening if we use a whole fucking lot of fuel. We've only got one booster that can do it, and it's the Delta IX that's on the pad for the EagleEye3 Saturn probe."

"So?"

"So we're going to need to steal that right out from under them. ULA wouldn't be able to get another one ready in time."

"They're not going to like that, but alright," Jaha said. "We can put them on hold if JPL gets the payload together."

Indra rubbed at her temples. "We'll do the best we can."

Jaha collected his folders from the table and stood. "You'll have to do even better than that. She'll starve if you don't."

\--

Kane drained the dregs of his lukewarm coffee and pinched the bridge of his nose. Caffeine this late would have been out of the realm of probability a month ago, but, then, a month ago he hadn't been drowning in paperwork. There was no way he'd be able to function without coffee fueling him. Not with scheduling issues, funding constraints, juggling projects and swiping pieces right out from under the noses of other project managers, fielding daily - scratch that, it was trending towards _hourly_ \- emails and phone calls from Abby Griffin. He'd never been this far out of his depth in his life.

He squeezed his phone tighter to his ear with a low groan. "I understand your frustration, but that's all the info I have for you right now. She's still there, still moving around. That's all I've got, Abby. I don't know what more you want from me."

" _An update on what plans you have in motion_ ," she replied, and he could hear the yawn in her voice, even if she was refusing to let it free. " _What's going on at JPL? I heard Sumati is neck deep in unplanned overtime._ "

"You know I can't tell you that until we're certain it's a modification we're going to utilize."

" _So, it is a modification? I'm going to assume it's to one of the Ares 4 vehicles. Does that mean you don't have a plan to get her back before then?_ "

"Abby, _please_. I'll let you know if there are any changes to her status, but I've got to go. Get some sleep, okay?" He didn't get any reply but a faint click, and he set his phone back on his desk and dropped his head into his hands. "Shit. Shit shit shit."

He rubbed at his temples before tossing a forlorn glance towards the clock on his computer screen. 11PM already, and he still had a long night ahead of him. He tugged his keyboard closer and set back to work.

" _NASA is a large organization, and as such has its problems dealing with sudden change. The only reason any of this is feasible is that we're doing this under such desperate circumstances. Any past problems regarding interdepartmental relations have gone out the window in favour of pulling together to save Clarke Griffin. I'm sure I don't need to tell you how rare that is. Even with that streamlining, the cost is still in the tens of millions, maybe hundreds of millions of dollars. We've had to staff up an entire project to work on the MDV modifications. However, I have high hopes that the increased public interest in NASA matters will make your job much easier. All of us over here appreciate your continued support, Congresswoman, and we hope that you're able to provide the sway necessary to bring the emergency funding we need from the Committee._ "

A knock at his door startled him, and he was sucking down a calming breath when Maya entered the room.

"Sorry to interrupt you, sir."

"It's no problem," Kane said, cracking his knuckles as he spun his chair to face her. "I've probably been at this too long without a break, anyways. What's up?"

"She's on the move."

Kane tipped his head back with a groan. "Is there any chance at all it's another test drive?"

She grimaced. "Not likely. She took off straight away from the Hab, spent two hours driving, took a short EVA, then did another two behind the wheel. We're guessing the EVA was to change the battery hookups."

"It couldn't be a longer test? Maybe an overnighter, to see how she managed sleeping in it?"

"She's 76 klicks out. I'd think if she were doing an overnight test, she'd at least stay within walking distance."

"Yeah," Kane confirmed, "she would. Shit. We've crunched all the numbers, run every possible scenario. There's no way she'd make it to Ares 4 with the set-up she's got in that rover right now. She can't have the basics to sustain herself in there; she never loaded the Oxygenator or the Water Reclaimer."

"Uhm, I don't really think that's where she's headed," Maya said. "Well, I mean, if she is, she's taking an indirect route we hadn't considered. She's on a south-southwest course, and Schiaparelli is southeast."

"Alright, that's better news. What's she up to right now?"

"She's set all the solar cells out for a recharge cycle. It took twelve hours last time, so I was thinking I'd head home to nab a couple hours of sleep myself, it that's fine with you."

"Of course. We'll watch what she does tomorrow and make any analyses of her purpose based on that. Maybe she'll just head back to the Hab."

Maya gave an unconvincing nod. "Yeah, maybe."

\--

"Welcome back to another episode of the Griffin Report," Diana said to the camera. "Today we're joined by Artigas Chalmers, who's a Media Liaison with the US Postal Service. Mr. Chalmers, from what I understand, the Ares 3 mission has resulted in a Postal Service first. How about you explain to our viewers what's happened?"

"Uhm, well," Artigas said, rubbing at the back of his neck, "the whole world figured she was dead for a little over two months. That was long enough for us to run a set of commemorative stamps in honour of her memory. Twenty thousand were issued and sent out to post offices across the country."

"And then the news came that she'd survived."

"Yeah," he continued, "that was a shock. We stopped the run immediately and put a recall out for the stamps, but a large percentage had already been sold. It's just, we're not in the business of printing stamps that feature living people."

"Has anything like this ever happened before?"

"Not at all, in the whole history of the Postal Service."

"Can we assume they'll be worth more now?"

Artigas chuckled. "They won't sell for all that much, since, like I said, thousands were bought by the public before we initiated the recall. They'll be rare, but not insanely rare."

Diana nodded. "Fascinating. Folks, we've been in studio with Artigas Chalmers of the United States Postal Service. If you've got a Clarke Griffin memorial stamp squirreled away at home, that's something you might want to hold on to. Thanks for joining us, Mr. Chalmers."

"Thank you for having me," he replied.

"Next up, we're visited by Dr. Jackson Shields, the Flight Psychologist for the Ares missions. Welcome to the program, Dr. Shields."

Jackson fiddled with his microphone clip for a moment. "Thanks."

"How well do you know Clarke Griffin?"

"Pretty well, I'd say. I did monthly psych evaluations on each crew member following the selection of the team. We've spent rather a lot of time across a table from one another," he laughed.

"What can you tell us about her? Her mindset, her personality?"

"Clarke's very intelligent," he said. "Well, of course, all of them are, but she's a particularly good problem-solver and very resourceful."

"Which may help save her life," Diana interjected.

"It might indeed," Jackson agreed, adjusting his microphone again. "She's good-natured, and has a fantastic sense of humour. Always quick with a joke. The crew were put through a grueling training program in the months leading up to the mission launch. All of them were stressed out and moody, and Clarke wasn't an exception to that. But she released that energy in a different way, cracked more jokes that got everyone laughing and relieved a bit of the tension."

"She sounds like a great girl," Diana said.

"Yeah, she really is," Jackson said. "A large part of the reason she was selected for the Ares 3 mission was her personality. The mission lasts 13 months, and the crew have to spend that in close quarters. Compatibility is key. Clarke doesn't just fit well into pretty much any social group, she also functions to make the group work more cohesively. So you can imagine it was a _devastating_ blow to Co- to the crew when she 'died'."

"And they still believe she's dead, correct? The crew members on the Ark?"

"Unfortunately. A decision was made to keep them uninformed of the change in status for the time being. I'm sure that's a choice that wasn't made lightly."

Diana paused for a moment, sparing a glance towards the camera. "Well. I have to ask: What do you think is going on in her head right now? How would Clarke Griffin respond to a situation like this? Marooned and isolated, with no idea we know she's alive?"

"We can't know for sure. The biggest problem would be if she gave up hope. If she decides there's no way she can survive this, if she stops trying…"

"But for now she's okay, right?" Diana said. "It looks as though she's hard at work, prepping the rover and putting it through tests. It looks like she plans to be at the Ares 4 site when their crew lands."

"That's one possible interpretation, yes," Jackson agreed.

"Do you have another?"

Jackson bit his lip as he carefully formulated an answer. "When people are brought face to face with death, they usually want to be heard. They don't want to die alone and unnoticed. She might- she might just be trying to get to the MAV radio to get in contact with NASA so she can talk to someone, _anyone_ , before she dies.

"If she's gotten to a hopeless state, she won't give a damn about surviving. She'll only be concerned with getting herself to the radio. After that? She'll have figured out that there's an easier way out than starvation, that there's enough morphine in her medical supplies for a lethal dose."

Diana's face went white as the studio stood silent. After a few moments, she turned to the camera with a shaky smile. "That's all for now, folks, but we'll be right back."

\--

"Kane," Indra said over the speakerphone.

"Hey, Indra," he replied, scrambling to dig a pen out from under the pile of papers on his desk. "Thanks for clearing your schedule for me, I just wanted to pick your brains about the presupply."

"What do you have?"

"So, let's say we land it perfectly. It's over on Mars in good condition, but how's Clarke going to know it's there? How's she going to find it?"

"That came up over here as well, and we have a few ideas."

"Shoot."

"We're sending a comm system with it, right? We could boot it after we land the probe, and then it would broadcast on the rover and EVA suit frequencies. It's have to be a pretty strong signal, though. The rovers and suits were only designed for short range communications; the rovers work at a max of around twenty kilometres and the EVA suits are even worse. But get us a good strong signal and we'll be fine. We'll take the location of the presupply from the satellites and then broadcast it to her."

"But odds are she's not listening, right? She's got no reason to."

"We've planned for that, too. We're working on a release mechanism that'd drop a bunch of bright green ribbons that are light enough to flutter in the Martian atmosphere. They'd all be printed with 'CLARKE: TURN ON YOUR COMM'. They'd release at about a klick above surface level at landing."

"Sounds good. She'd only need to spot one, and she's sure to check on them if she sees one out there."

"That was the thought."

"Good work, keep me posted."

"Kane," Indra said, "if she takes that rover to Ares 4, we'll have gone through all of this for nothing. I mean, we can still pick her up at the site if that happens, but…"

"But she'll be without the Hab. Yeah. One problem at a time. Update me when you've got that release mechanism worked out."

"Will do."

He hung up and glanced back to his computer. An email notification from Maya Vie had popped up in the corner of the screen. Subject heading: _Griffin's moving again_.

\--

"Still just trucking away in a straight line," Maya commented, gesturing towards her monitor.

"So she's sure as hell not going to Ares 4, then, unless there's some obstacle we've got no knowledge of out there."

"No, nothing for her to skirt around. It's Acidalia Planitia."

"Are those the solar cells out again?" Kane said, pointing at the corner of the screen.

"Yeah, she's following the same routine as usual. Drive, EVA, drive, recharge. She's 156 klicks out from the Hab now."

They both sat back and surveyed the screen.

"Wait…" Kane mumbled, tapping his fingers on the edge of the worktable. "Wait, she's not…"

"What?"

Kane leaned in front of her to grab a stack of sticky notes and a pen. "Can I get the coordinates for her current location, and for the Hab?"

Maya scanned the screen. "She's at 28.9ON, 29.6OW right now, and…" she keyed in a few strings and brought up another file, "the Hab's at 31.2ON, 28.5OW. What did you think of?"

Kane scrawled down the last few digits. "Let's go," he said, spinning on his heel and walking out of the cubicle.

"Uh, but," she stammered, jogging a couple paces to keep up, "where are we going?"

"The SatCon breakroom. There's still that map of Mars on the wall, right?"

"Yeah," she said, "but it's just a shitty gift shop poster. I can pull up higher quality maps on my computer-"

"I need to draw on it," he replied, pointing out the map as they entered the breakroom. "I need to draw on _that_."

The computer tech sitting with a cup of coffee cradled in his hands startled when they barged in. "Hey, leave that," he complained as Kane uncapped his Sharpie.

"I'll get you a new one," he mumbled, running his fingertip along the latitude lines before marking an X. "That's the Hab," he said, his hand already darting along another line. He scrawled a second X. "That's where she is right now. Grab me a ruler, would you?"

Maya looked around the room, then grabbed the tech's notebook when she came up empty.

"Hey!"

"Sorry-"

Kane used the edge of the notebook to draw a line through the Xs and past, then stepped back, his face breaking into a grin. "There, that's where she's going! Clarke Griffin, you sneaky, clever little fucker!"


	12. Chapter 12

** Log Entry: Sol 79 **

Sirius 4 has been out on the road for eight days and, so far, it's been a resounding success. If only I had some wood to knock on.

It didn't take me all that long to slip into a routine. I wake up at sunrise every day (look at me becoming a morning person), and check out the O2 and CO2 levels before I break out a meal pack. My favourite to wake up to has got to be the barbeque chicken, by far. Not that you can really tell the protein bricks apart, but I like to pretend. I round out this totally filling meal with a cup of water, then brush my teeth with as little water as I can manage before dealing with my other bodily needs.

Thanks to some really great planning on NASA's part, the rover's got no toilet. They didn't really plan on us spending three weeks in these guys, so we were supposed to use the reclamation systems in our suits if nature called. As you can expect, those weren't designed to hold so many days' worth of output.

So I get to hoard my piss. It's great fun. They hooked us girls up with female urination devices, or FUDs, so it's easy enough for me to do my business in a resealable plastic box. The pro for that is I don't waste any of the water I almost blew myself up to make. I'll be able to feed all of it back into the Water Reclaimer when I return to the Hab. The con? It makes the rover reek every time I crack it open. But that's a small price to pay to maintain my water supply.

If you really want to get nasty, I've got to save my shit, too. It's pretty much the only thing keeping my farm going, it and the water, and I'm the only source of it on Mars. Ass, meet bag. The only thing worse than my box of piss is the smell after I have to take a dump in a plastic bag. It's fucking aces, let me tell you.

Next on the list is restacking the solar cells. I mean, I could do that before I went to sleep, but turns out that when it's pitch black out isn't exactly the best time to be dismantling and gathering up solar cells. Learned that one the fucking hard way.

I toss the cells up on top of the rover and strap 'em down, then it's time to crank up some of Lexa's shitty music, get behind the wheel, and set off at the blazing high speed of 25kph. Gets the adrenaline going, let me tell you. At least the rover's relatively climate-controlled. Small mercies. I've been wearing the same cut-off pants and sleeve-monstered shirt since I set off, on account of the RTG putting the temp up at around 25 degrees. Nice and balmy. It gets any hotter than that and I strip my insulation square off the outer hull. Once the temp drops too low, I tape it back up.

It takes around two hours for me to drain the battery, then I do a short EVA to switch the cables out before I set off for the second half of the day's drive.

If you've ever taken a roadtrip across the Midwest, you know how boring kilometre upon kilometre of the same scenery can get. Driving, nay, _creeping_ across Mars at a snail's pace is even worse. The terrain's just as flat as the plains, and it's orange as far as the eye can see. I don't even have to change my path if I encounter any rocks, as the rover's set high enough that it's safe for me to drive right over them, and any hills are long, sloping, and barely-noticeable.

After I run the second battery dry, it's EVA time again. I take the solar cells down and lay them around the rover. I've given up on trying to keep them aligned, in favour of just tossing them anywhere. Repetition breeds laziness, I guess.

Driving is dull enough, but at least I'm moving when I'm at the wheel. The twelve hours of charge time are even worse, and I'm getting fucking sick of being trapped in this rover. There's as much room in here as there'd be in the average seven-seater van, which might seem like a lot for one person. And it would, if I hadn't already been stuck in here for eight days. I fucking miss the Hab, with all that wide open space. I fucking miss being able to stand up without having to bear the weight of an EVA suit to do it.

I'm fucking nostalgic for the Hab, how fucking messed up is that?

I've got seasons of shitty TV to plow through, and all that Asimov and company, but honestly? I've just spent most of my time worrying about how I'm gonna get to Ares 4. I'm going stir-crazy being stuck in here eight days, and that trip's gonna take at least fifty. And I'm going to need to figure out how to fit the Water Reclaimer, the Oxygenator, some of the Hab's batteries and a hell of a lot more solar cells into an already packed setup. Where the hell is any of that supposed to go?

After hours with those thoughts circling my head, the sun goes down. I curl up under my blanket, on top of a pile of crew jumpsuits, and try to forget that I'm surrounded by food packs and water tanks and O2 tanks and CO2 filters and boxes and bags filled with my own waster and holy shit I'm pretty much just sleeping in a pile of junk…

And, now we're on the scintillating topic of sleep, goodnight. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite.

Thank fucking hell there're no bedbugs on Mars. Small mercies.

** Log Entry: Sol 80 **

By my calculations, I'm around about a hundred klicks out from Pathfinder. Okay, yeah, it's now technically known as 'Carl Sagan Memorial Station'. Whatever. Due respect to my homeslice Carl, but I can call it whatever the fucking hell I want. Not only am I the one that's about to steal it, but I'm the fucking Queen of Mars, too. Anyone who has any complaints can go fuck themselves.

Like I said, it's been one hell of a boring fucking drive, and I'm still on the outward bound leg. But, I mean, I _am_ an astronaut. I'm kinda used to long-ass journeys. It's pretty much my entire job description. Seeking nerd who's alright with traveling millions of kilometres in a tin can. What's a couple hundred more, right?

Surprisingly, slightly more difficult. At least, navigation-wise. Up in the Ark we've got our path laid out for us, and a whole crew to hop on the radio and ream us out if we stray even the slightest bit off course. Down here on the ground is a different story.

Within about forty kilometres of the Hab, I can plot my path pretty accurately, thanks to the nav beacon that weakens too much to work at any distance beyond that. I had a fantastic plan to go by once that navigation source fell through, but, as I've found out lately, my plans never seem to stand up when put into action.

The rover computer's chock full of detailed maps, so I figured I'd be able to navigate by landmarks. Yeah, remember how the terrain's fucking flat? Turns out, navigating by landmarks gets a hell of a lot harder when you can't even find any fucking landmarks.

Callaghan was totally psyched about our landing site. It's a geologist's wet dream, the delta of a long-gone river that would have dragged soil and rock samples from thousands of kilometres across the planet down into this valley. The perfect place to find microscopic fossils, if there were any to be had. And, unfortunately for me, possibly the worst place to set out without a reliable navigation system. Seeing as it's a fucking _featureless wasteland_.

If I were back on Earth, it'd come down to a simple magnet. I'd just have to take one of my med kit needles and run electricity through it. Slight problem there: amongst the things Mars lacks is a magnetic field. Bully for me.

So instead, I looked to the skies. Specifically, Phobos. It actually orbits Mars twice a day, speeding west to east across the sky. Might not be the most accurate nav system ever, but it works for me, so who am I to complain?

Sol 75 saw me breathing a little easier, since I entered the mouth of a valley with a shallow rise to the west. Easy driving thanks to the flat terrain, and pretty brainless too. All I had to do was keep the hills to my side and I was golden. As far as I know, the valley's unnamed, so as Supreme Leader of Mars, it was up to me to give it a title. I went with 'Callaghan Valley', after our reigning geology nerd and oh-so-fearless leader. Lexa would fucking love it there. I spent a couple minutes during one of my EVAs there looking for a rock to take back to the Hab for her, but I came up short. If I'm gonna give a Martian souvenir to her, it's gotta be perfect.

After three sols, Callaghan Valley opened right back up into a wide, flat plain, and once again I had to turn my eyes skyward and rely on Phobos to lead me right. Unfortunately, that also meant looking to the god of fear, offspring of the god of war, for guidance. Probably not a great sign, but I didn't really have any other choice.

But then today, things started going my way. I spent two days wandering the desert, searching for my promised land, before I finally found something I could navigate by. The crater was about five klicks across, so small it wasn't even listed by name on the map, but I gave it one right quick. It was my Lighthouse of Alexandria, and once I caught sight of it, I knew down to the metre where I was.

Right now I'm camped out on its lip, taking a look at my maps to plot the remainder of my journey. I'm back in known territory now. I can use the Lighthouse to navigate by early tomorrow, and after that I have the Hamelin Crater to light my path. I'm pretty much set.

Now I've got the solar cells out, it's on to my next task. Twelve good solid hours of doing fuck all.

It's super important work, so I better get down to it.

** Log Entry: Sol 81 **

I'm about twenty-two klicks out from Pathfinder now. I thought I might make it today, but the ground was giving way to more rock than usual and I ran my batteries down faster than anticipated.

Oh well, that just means I'll have even more daylight to work with when I get there tomorrow. Other than the terrain changes, the drive was pretty unremarkable. Navigation wasn't an issue with the craters I've been skirting around, and I just had to keep a bit more of my attention on the driving.

I've been out of Acidalia Planitia for a while, and I'm well into Ares Vallis, which means the rocks in my path are getting a bit too big to risk the suspension by driving over, so it meant a lot of dipsy-doodling back and forth. Fortunately, once I get to Pathfinder and get it loaded up, I've just gotta make the short jaunt through this patch again before I'm pretty much home free.

The weather's been aces for me, too. No gusts of wind, no storms that I can detect. That's been great for the driving now, and if it stays this way, then I'll have a good shot at being able to follow my own tracks right back to Callaghan Valley. Fuck you, Mars. Gotcha on that one.

After I set up the solar panels, I decided to go for a bit of a walk. I'm going stir-crazy being cooped up in that fucking box twenty-four and a bit hours a sol. I made sure to stay in sight of the rover; the last thing I want to do is get myself lost on foot. What a fucking stupid way to die that'd be.

It hit me, when I was standing at the peak of a short slope, that I was the first person to ever stand there. Weird feeling, that. Everywhere I go, everything I do, I'm the first. Every time I climb out of the rover on an EVA, I'm the first person to ever be there. Take a stroll up a hill? First to do that. Stub my toe on a rock and then boot it away from me while swearing a lot? Guess what, Clarke? That rock's been sitting there for millions of years and you're the first living thing that's ever touched it.

It's bigger than that, too. I'm the first person to drive long-distance on Mars. The first person to spend over thirty-one sols on the surface. First to grow crops. First, first, first!

If I'm being honest, I didn't go into this with the expectation of being the first at anything. I was the fifth one to jump out of the MDV, which put me at seventeenth to set foot on Mars. Not exactly Neil Armstrong status. The MDV exit order was set years before we reached the surface, probably before any of us were even selected to the Ares 3 crew.

A month before we launched, the six of us trekked down to a local tattoo parlour and all got ink of our 'Mars Numbers'. It was Raven's idea, I'm pretty sure. Which was ironic, considering that she then attempted to refuse to get hers 'cause she was afraid it would hurt. Raven Reyes, who trucked it through the centrifuge, the vomit comet, and 10K runs with nary a complaint. The same woman who had her knee destroyed in the middle of a hard landing drill but just gritted her teeth and kept working. And she was afraid of a fucking tattoo needle.

It took Anya straddling her hips, which then turned into Anya pressed up against her back and whispering who knows what in her ear, plus Lincoln holding down her legs, to keep her in the chair while the tattoo artist went to work. She's fucking lucky all her flailing didn't cause a blowout. The resulting XV is on her left calf, just below one of her surgical scars.

Lincoln got his XIV on his right side, in amidst some Germanic knotwork he'd previously had done.

Octavia's XVI is on her right delt.

Anya's XVIII is on her left wrist, and she's kept it hidden underneath her watch strap ever since it healed.

Lexa's XIII runs down her spine. The artist tried really hard to talk her out of it, since it hurts like a bitch. I'm super glad he didn't, because seeing her with her shirt off is a damn fucking _treat_ , let me tell you. Oh, come on, they made her do those Under Armour commercials in a sports bra. You've seen the abs. You can't fucking judge me.

You're probably wondering where I got mine. When it was my turn to go under the needle, I just gave a shit-eating grin to the artist and told him I wanted it on my ass.

** Log Entry: Sol 81 (2) **

Okay, so I was going to leave it at that, but then you'd all be thinking I actually got it on my ass and I didn't, okay? Not that that'd be anything bad, but that's not where I got it.

It's just, I'm kinda still fucking embarrassed about where and what I ended up getting because I'm not normally that sappy. O and Raven are probably going to say that's a lie whenever these come out, but I'm _not_ , honestly.

After I said I was gonna get it on my ass, Lexa just groaned and said that if I did that, she was gonna get NASA to do a nude calendar and my tat would be plastered all over the dorm rooms of every horny college frat boy in the country. She backed down when she realised I wouldn't have had a problem with that, and I asked the guy if we could do it privately. Of course, the rest of my asshole crewmates tried to say that they'd seen my ass already anyways, and it wasn't anything special, which is true. The first bit. Not the second. My ass is magnificent, thank you very much.

But in the end I got my way, and I got my tat done behind closed doors. When I came out I played up all these faces and walked with a limp, and I thought I was doing a pretty good job of it, but then I forgot to wince when we sat down to lunch and they called me out on it.

So I had to tug down the collar of my shirt and peel back the bandage in the middle of a packed restaurant to show it to them. Like I said, I was number seventeen to step on Mars, and I got the XVII right over my heart. The artist tried to talk me out of that, too, and it fucking _hurt_ , but I didn't regret it one bit at the time, and I still don't.

Okay, that's a teeny, tiny lie, because I kinda really regretted it when Anya was the first to realize that each line was actually one of our names and she proceeded to fake projectile vomit. But then I caught Lexa's eye and she looked like she was about to cry but had this huge grin on her face, and, yeah, no regrets at all.

I miss my crew.

I'm looking at my tattoo now, and, man, I really fucking miss my crew.

I miss people, in general. I miss talking to something other than a computer. I miss my mom.

I miss my dad.

And it's probably really fucking pathetic that I'm this mopey about it.

But, then again…

I'm the first person who's ever been alone on a planet.

** Log Entry: Sol 82 **

Not only am I the greatest botanist on this planet, I'm the greatest explorer as well. I found it!

I knew I was getting close when I picked out Twin Peaks in the distance. The mirrored peaks are about a klick out from the landing site, and, even better, they were on the far side of it from my current path. That made everything easy, peasy, lemon squeezy, since all I had to do was aim for them and chug along until I caught sight of the Lander.

And, lo and behold, miracle or miracles, there it was. Exactly where it was supposed to be.

Pathfinder fell to earth, well, to ground, as a tetrahedron absolutely covered in balloons. It's actually pretty neat, and if I could insert pictures into the log I'd show you. You can go and Google and you'll see it in a hundredth of a second. The internet is rad like that. Those balloons did a bang-up job of absorbing the landing impact, no pun intended, and then deflated after the Lander came to rest. The tetrahedron then unfolded to reveal, drumroll please, the probe.

The probe's actually made up of two components. You're got the Lander itself, and its plucky little sidekick, otherwise known as the Sojourner rover. I'll let you in on a little secret that's only going to make me seem more nerdy. I had a plush Sojourner growing up, one my dad gave to me, and I'd cuddle up with it at night under a ceiling spattered with glow-in-the-dark stars. I still have it, actually; it's a bit more worn out now but still intact. It's at my mom's. Maybe she'll donate it to the Air and Space Museum for the exhibit they'll probably end up having on me.

The larger Lander was immobile, and Sojourner scooted around and took a peek at the nearby terrain. I'm going to take both of them back with me (I mean, did you really think I'd leave Sojourner after what I just admitted?), but what's really important is the Lander. That's the bit that can communicate with Earth. That's the bit that might save my life.

I cut the rover's engine and literally fell out it in my excitement. First person to deface the Carl Sagan Memorial Station by getting their foot caught in their seatbelt, eating shit out of the airlock, and faceplanting mere metres from Pathfinder.

Okay, so I'm not exactly the smoothest astronaut out there.

I popped up to my feet, and there was no way that little incident was going to put a damper on my mood. I was _psyched_. I worked so fucking hard to get here, and I'd made it.

The Lander was partially buried in the sand, and it took a couple minutes of careful digging to get most of it exposed, though the tetrahedron and balloons still lay beneath the surface.

It took a quick search to locate Sojourner. I vaguely recalled that it'd been last spotted a ways out from the Lander, but after some digging I found the little guy two metres from the hull. It'd probably gone through some contingencies and made its way back to the Lander to attempt to communicate.

I easily got Sojourner into the airlock, thanks to how small and light it was. The Lander, on the other hand? That was going to be a whole different ball game.

There was no way I was getting that whole setup back to the Hab. It's fucking huge. It was time for mechanical engineer Clarke to come to her own rescue.

The probe was attached to the centre panel of the tetrahedron, with the other three panels hinging off each side. The first thing the guys over at JPL tell you when you meet them is _don't screw around with our probes, flyboy_. And they're not just being dicks; probes are insanely delicate. Well, as delicate as they can be and still make it to ground in one piece after having been strapped to a rocket and shot through space to fall unceremoniously to ground on a whole other planet.

The delicacy was going for me right then, because all it was a couple shoves on a crowbar and I popped the panels off at the hinges. Screw you, JPL. Sorry, no, you're nice girls and guys for the most part. Thanks for getting me to Mars…?

It wasn't until after I popped the three panels off that things started to get difficult. I pulled at the centre panel but, lo and behold, it refused to budge. Fantastic. Remember those deflated balloons? Turns out when those puncture and get filled with sand, they add a hell of a lot of weight. Go figure.

All I needed to do was cut the balloons off, easy does it, and it _would_ be easy, if the other panels, with _their_ sand-filled balloons, weren't in the fucking way.

But wait. I couldn't give less of a shit about the condition those panels ended up in. Don't need them, so, sorry Carl, they've gotta go. I retrieved some Hab material from the rover, sliced it up into strands, and braided those into a pretty shitty-looking but tough rope. Thank you NASA R&D, your material comes in hot again.

One end of the rope went to the rover, and the other to one of the panels. Now, my little rover might not be fast, but she's made for traversing Martian terrain. Torque is the name of her game, and so I went at that panel and within half a minute I had it dragged clear enough that I had room to dig. I guess there's something to be said for displays of brute strength.

I went at the balloons after that, whiling away an hour exposing them and slicing them free of the panel.

And then I totally picked up the entire panel and carried it over to the rover.

Yeah. Right. I mean, if I were Lincoln, then sure, but even without the balloons that thing has gotta weigh a solid 200kg. Still a bit much even in Martian gravity. Especially in an EVA suit. Not happening.

So I went for the next best thing and dragged it over to the rover.

That's where I was stumped. How the _hell_ was I gonna get it on the roof?

I'd worked it all out before, of course. I'd stacked the solar cells in two columns for the journey here. On the way back, they'd be strapped up in one towering heap, with the Lander up beside them. Maybe not the most safe, but you gotta do what you gotta do, right? The worst thing about it is how much of a pain in the ass it is to stack them that high.

With most anything else, I'd probably just throw a rope over the rover and haul it up to the roof. But this is Pathfinder. A machine that already broke down over thirty-five years ago. I'm not gonna risk breaking it even more by going at it all gung-ho like that.

It took a bit to think of a solution, but I came up with one I was sure would do the trick. Only, I was too fucking tired to get into it then, and I was losing daylight fast.

So, instead, I'm in the rover, taking a nice long gander at Sojourner. From a cursory glance, it looks alright. I don't see any physical damage, and it doesn't look like it's been too sun-fried. The sand and dirt caked over it probably saw to that.

I'm not just bringing Sojourner back with me because I'm nostalgic. It's of more use to me than that. It's got a hell of a lot of moving parts.

I've got to think six or seven steps ahead here. The Lander's gonna get me in contact with NASA, and I can easily use the camera to talk to them. I'll just write out a page of text and hold it up for a photo. But they're gonna have a more difficult time of it. The Lander's pretty static, except for the high gain antenna, which needs to stay pointed at Earth or it's a no-go on the comms sitch, and the camera boom. We'd have to work out a communication system where NASA could rotate the camera head to talk to me. Probably wouldn't make for scintillating conversation, seeing as it'd have to be a letter at a time.

But if I factor Sojourner into the mix, I've then got six independent wheels that can rotate pretty quickly (at least relative to the camera boom). Much, much easier. I could paste some letters on the wheels and hold up a mirror to the camera so NASA could figure the system out and then we'd be golden from there.

Of course, that's all functioning under the assumption I can get the Lander's radio back to work.

Cool. Cool cool cool. No pressure.

I'm gonna head to bed. I've got a ton of work tomorrow, and I need my sleep. And if anyone tells you that I'm gonna curl up alongside Sojourner and toss an arm over the little fella, they're a fucking liar.

Okay, yeah, they're not.

Whatever.

** Log Entry: Sol 83 **

Fuck me.

Just fucking fuck me up.

I'm _dying_.

Okay, not dying, but holy fucking _shit_ am I sore.

But, mechanical engineer or not, I couldn't come up with any better way to get the Lander up onto the roof of the rover.

I've got a hell of a lot of respect for the ancient Egyptians right now, because building a ramp out of stone and sand? That shit's fucking _taxing_.

Lucky for me, if there's one thing Ares Vallis has in excess, it's rocks!

I had to mess around with it for a while to figure out how steep a grade I could get away with without fucking up the Lander in the process. I piled rocks up near the Lander, then dragged it up and down. Made it steeper, rinse, repeat. Turns out 30 degrees was around perfect. Anything more and I risked tipping the Lander off the side or losing my grip and sending it tumbling back down the ramp. Shit, imagine? If I spent a couple weeks roundtrip just to fuck up the Lander before I could even use it? Jeez, at least I'm not that unlucky.

Okay, really wish I had some wood to knock on right now, to be totally honest. Shouldn't have said that.

The roof of the rover's about two metres off the ground, so I figured I'd need a ramp about four metres long. So I got right to work.

It went easy at first. For a rock. Or two. Then my body kinda clued in that it was undernourished, lugging around a 20kg EVA suit, and adding even more weight on top of that. Needless to say, it felt like I was being murdered. All that weight, plus the limited movement? Yup, killer.

So, I took a luxury and cranked up my O2 mixture. Helped a lot, but that's not really something I should be making a habit of doing. And lucky for me, the suit leaks heat faster than I could ever let it off, so I stayed nice and cool throughout the process.

It took a few hours of back-breaking labour before I finally got the ramp all set up. It was literally just a pile of rocks up against the rover, looked like a child could've done it, but it reached the roof and at that point that was all that mattered.

I took a few runs up and down the slope by myself, stomping and jumping just to make sure it was stable, then I pulled the Lander right up onto the roof and got it securely lashed down. Score one for the science nerd. I had a huge fucking grin plastered on my face as I got the straps secured, and then even used the ramp to get the solar cells up because why the hell not, right?

That smile went to shit when it hit me. If I drove away with the ramp still up against the rover, the probability was very, _very_ high that the ramp would collapse and take out the wheels or the undercarriage. And I was gonna have to take that shit apart to make sure that didn't happen.

Fuck me.

On the plus side, it was a hell of a lot easier to tear down than it was to put up, seeing as I could just toss the rocks willy-nilly instead of having to make a stable base from them. Altogether, the teardown took me an hour.

And now I'm done, and so, _so_ ready to get to bed.

I'll set off for home tomorrow, with my brand-spanking-new 200kg broken radio. Whoopee


	13. Chapter 13

** Log Entry: Sol 90 **

I'm seven days out from the original Pathfinder site, which also means I'm seven days closer to home.

In both the sense of the Hab and Earth, hopefully.

I got lucky and was able to follow my own tracks back to Callaghan Valley, and then spent four days worth of easy driving down there. I'd've had to be blind to get lost, seeing as all I had to do was keep the hills to my left and I was golden.

Good things don't last forever, though, and now that I've reached Acidalia Planitia I'm a teeny tiny bit lost. The tracks from my outward bound leg have long since blown away. If I'd been completely masochistic, I would've built rock piles at each of my campsites, since they'd be visible from way off. Luckily for my body, I wasn't; building the ramp for Pathfinder was bad enough that I'm still sore from it a week later.

All that means is I'm sticking with Phobos again, since he didn't steer me all that wrong last time out. All I need to do is get within 40 klicks of the Hab and I'll be able to pick up the beacon. From there I'd be able to make it back blindfolded.

I'm pretty fucking excited, to tell the truth. I've got hope now, for the first time since I woke up half-buried in the sand. I've got a chance, now. So with that in mind, I've been messing around taking soil samples every time I go out for an EVA. Call me a geek, I don't care, I'm doing something with a goal other than plain survival for the first time in months. I'm allowed to be excited about it.

I feel like an astronaut again, not just a marooned sailor. It's nice. I'm not Farmer Clarke, or MacGyver, or a long haul trucker. I'm just Astronaut Griffin, and I'm doing what I've been trained to do, all my astronaut shit, and it's _nice_. I've missed it a whole fucking lot.

** Log Entry: Sol 92 **

I picked up the Hab signal for a second or two today before losing it, which is a pretty good sign. I've been doing my best to stick to a north-northwesterly route for the past two days and I guess it's working out, though I've gotta still be at least 100 klicks out from the Hab, so it's fucking amazing I got a signal at all.

Look out, Mars, I'm coming home.

Collecting samples doesn't take up all that much of my copious amounts of free time, so I've been killing the hours by watching some direct-to-TV SyFy crap and the like. The last one was a conspiracy theory about leaving astronauts on the moon, and let me tell you, it's a hundred percent accurate. NASA's actually built this entire research station on the dark side of the moon that's already been there for a couple generations. Didn't you hear?

** Log Entry: Sol 93 **

I'm locked on to the Hab signal for good now, so I'm all set direction-wise. It'd take a head wound for me to get lost now.

The computer's telling me I'm about 25 klicks out, so I'll be home by tomorrow. Shit, I could _walk_ from where I am now and be home by tomorrow.

And I fucking might. You have no idea how fucking sick I am of being stuck in the rover. The only time I've been able to stand up the last three weeks is when I've been on my EVAs; other than that I've been seated or lying down and my back's feeling it for sure. Which makes me miss Octavia more than ever.

Sure, she'd get on my case about dietary restrictions and flexibility if she were here, but she'd also have my back un-fucked in no time at all. I'd take the endless lectures if it meant I received a functional back as trade-off.

The past couple of weeks have felt like a throwback to the apex of training hell, better known as the 'Missed Orbit' scenario. If the second stage failed when we were in the MAV during ascent, we'd be in orbit around Mars, but too low to make it to the Ark and low enough that our orbit would decay due to gravity. In that event, NASA's bring the Ark to us and get us the hell out of there before we caught too much drag for the return leg of our trip.

We were trapped in the MAV simulator for three shitty, horrible, terrible days to drill this. Keep in mind that this is six people crammed into an ascent vehicle meant for 23 minutes of flight. You can probably guess how long it took for someone to threaten murder.

(Three hours, it was three hours.)

When they finally let us out, Callaghan made us swear that 'what happened in Missed Orbit stays in Missed Orbit'. (So what you're saying is I _shouldn't_ have mentioned Raven telling Anya she was going to smash her head against the control panel if she didn't shut the hell up. Right. Whoops.) It was a sentiment that worked, though. We put the stuff that could have torn our team apart behind us and went right back to normal.

'Cause that's what we were trained to do.

Losing a crewmate, on the other hand? No protocol in the manual.

I'm so sorry, guys.

I'd trade anything to be back in that MAV simulator for five minutes. Kilometres upon kilometres of empty space have made me feel really fucking alone out here. Back in the Hab I had distractions, but on the road all I've had is time to think and mope. Hours behind the wheel on an empty road can really drive you some not great places. Like the realization that I'm further away from another human than anyone has ever been in history.

Damn, I really hope I can get Pathfinder up and running.

** Log Entry: Sol 94 **

Hab sweet Hab!

I'm speaking to you now from the wide open potato fields of my home!

Holy _shit_ am I glad to be back. I sprinted around waving my arms and whooping the moment I got back through the airlock. Don't look at me like that, I spent 22 days trapped in a fucking rover and couldn't go for a walk without suiting up. Being vertical and not having to wear what pretty much amounts to a weight vest is _fantastic_.

I'm just trying to forget that I'll probably have to spend twice that long getting to Ares 4. Oh well, that's a Future Clarke problem. Present Clarke needs to get down to work.

I cranked the Oxygenator and Atmospheric Regulator and checked the current air levels. Everything's looking fine, and there's still CO2, so my kids should've made it through the separation okay. And they did. I went through some exhaustive checklists and they're all healthy as can be.

The bags of shit went down into the manure pile, which was about as fun to deal with as it sounds, but luckily the smell died down a bit with the addition of soil into the mix. The pee box went into the Water Reclaimer and I moved on to other, less nasty tasks.

Electronics and water don't mix, as I'm sure you all know, but I had to make the decision to leave the Hab humidity levels high for my potatoes. I spent a couple hours doing systems checks on all the equipment to make sure I didn't screw myself over with that choice, but everything's coming up roses.

I lazed around for a bit after that, 'cause all I wanted to do was spend the rest of the day napping, but I couldn't spare all that much time and after about half an hour I was up and at it again.

I suited up again and visited the rover to collect the solar cells. My back wasn't all that happy with my plans to drag them back to the array and wire them into a grid, so it took a bit longer than I expected in between short breaks to do some swearing and groaning. But no worries, they're all hooked up again and looking good, even if I'm not.

Luckily, getting Pathfinder off the rover was a hell of a lot easier than getting it up there had been. Genius engineer that I am, I realized I could just detach one of the struts from the MAV platform and prop it up against the hull and Abracadabra, ready-made ramp.

Really fucking wish I'd thought about doing that three weeks ago. Oh well, live and learn, right?

There's no way in hell I'm getting Pathfinder inside the airlock. Honestly. I know it's called a rover, but it's not anywhere near dog-sized. I'd have to completely dismantle it and bring it in piece by piece, and then I'd have shot myself in the foot, anyways.

Mars doesn't have magnetic fields, see, and as a result doesn't have protection against solar radiation, either. If I were exposed to that for extended periods of time I'd get cancer on cancer on cancer. They've manufactured the Hab canvas to be impervious to electromagnetic rays, which also happens to be how Pathfinder transmits. Go figure. So I could bring it in, fix it up, and then drag it back out, or just fix it outside.

Guess which one my back thinks I should pick.

But, speaking of cancer, there's that massive radioactive elephant in the room. I've gotta ditch the RTG. I'd rather shoot myself in the foot than climb back in the rover, but I made the sacrifice. If that cracked open, I'd be going straight past cancer and right on to dead-dead- _dead_.

I wasn't about to undercut NASA's four klick safety radius, so I trucked it back out to where Callaghan had originally buried it and dumped it back in the same hole before returning to the Hab.

Pathfinder's gonna have to wait a bit longer. Me and my spine are very, _very_ excited about a nice heavy sleep in an actual bed. (Okay, yes, it's not a _real_ bed, but it's the closest I'm gonna get).

Even more comforting is the fact I'm going to be peeing in a toilet tomorrow morning. Go me.

** Log Entry: Sol 95 **

Engineer Clarke Griffin reporting for duty.

Today, I'm going to teach you how to repair a Lander that suffered a critical failure over three and a half decades ago. It's probably going to get a bit messy up here, so don't try this at home, kids.

NASA lost contact with Pathfinder when it failed, ending the mission, and then had no way to keep tabs on Sojourner. Sojourner might be in slightly better shape, which'd be great. It might just need power, which it couldn't really get when its solar panels are all coated in dirt.

It was small enough I could easily bring it inside the Hab, and I set it on my workbench and cracked it open. Felt a bit like gutting a childhood best friend when I pried off the panel to look inside; there's a part of me that can't really separate the stuffed toy I slept with as a kid and the hunk of metal in front of me. I got over that quickly, cause I had to, and took a nice long look at the battery. It's a lithium thionyl chloride non-rechargeable. Took some expertise to figure that out, a combination of the connection point shape, insulation thickness, and the fact it had "LiSOCl2 NON-RCHRG" printed on it.

I stripped all the dirt off the solar panels and put them under a small lamp; the battery's long since died, but if the panels are okay then Sojourner might be able to operate directly off of them. I'll just have to wait and see.

I'd done as much for the baby rover as I could, so it was time to head out and take a gander at the Big Kahuna.

Like Sojourner, I'm anticipating the failure began with the battery. It's the weak link in rover manufacture. It's delicate, and once it dies, there's no way you can come back from it.

The Lander can't go into hibernation mode when it hits low power, because the electronic components have to be kept at a minimum temperature or they'll be destroyed too. They need heaters to keep the electronics at a good temperature, which is an issue that's come up about once on Earth, but hey. Hashtag Mars problems, am I right?

Combine that with the slow accumulation of dust on the rover's solar panels and winter's lower temperatures and limited sunlight, and, well. It's pretty much a big "go fuck yourself" from Mars to the lander. It gets to the point where the power needed to stay warm is more than the charge it's getting from the light that makes it to the surface. The battery runs down, the electronics freeze, and that's how you kill a lander.

But it still has the solar panels, you're saying. Yeah, and they'll slightly recharge the batteries, but there's nothing telling the system to reboot itself. It's stuck in stasis, since you need electronics to make that command and they're fucked thanks to the cold. This slight recharge cycle will continue until the unused battery loses all ability to retain its charge.

Cause of death: Mars.

Hopefully that's what ended Pathfinder, because that'll be a relatively easy thing for me to fix.

I built a makeshift workbench out of some of the old MDV parts and dragged Pathfinder over and onto it so I could get to work. I wasn't gonna spend hours bent over in an EVA suit if I didn't have to; I don't think my back would've forgiven me.

Pathfinder was even easier to crack open than Sojourner, and if I'd been unable to identify the battery I'd probably have been more concerned about who the hell let me join NASA. See, JPL labels everything. Literally everything. Up to and including toothbrushes and mugs. I've never felt more like a child than when I've been forced to used a mug labeled ' **MUG** ', like they thought I wouldn't know what it was otherwise.

Pathfinder's battery is a 40 Amp-hour Ag-Zr battery with an optimal voltage of 1.5V. Jeez, they really built this shit to run on nothing back in the day, huh?

I wrangled it inside and checked the current, which, yeah, as expected, super dead. I could get more charge shuffling my socked feet across a carpet.

Luckily for me, I knew what it needed. 1.5 volts.

Putting this shit together? Piece of cake compared to the crap I've been doing since I got stranded. I've got voltage controllers in my kit, for crying out loud! It was a breeze, took all of fifteen minutes to put a controller on a reserve power line, and another hour to run the line out to the rover and hook it up to where the battery used to be.

Then back to the whole heat issue. Electronics are kept best above -40C. It's a nice balmy -63C out there today. Not ideal, to say the least.

The battery was easy as pie to identify, but I wasn't about to go rooting around in there to try and find the heaters, and even if I knew where they were, I wasn't about to jeopardize the rover by hooking them directly to the power. I'd rather Fried Lander not be on the menu tonight.

So I went back to my good old friend Rover 1 and ripped out his environmental heater. Poor buddy, he's looking rougher and rougher every day. I gave him a pat and headed on my way back to my workbench.

I hooked the heater up to the Hab and settled it down into the gap I'd left when I tore out the battery.

Now it's time to wait.

Now it's time to cross my fingers and hope.

** Log Entry: Sol 96 **

I had the smallest, tiniest hope I'd be waking up to a functional Lander, but not with my luck. The high-gain antenna hasn't moved an inch, which is a big deal. Or a lack of one. Why?

If I can get Pathfinder up and running, it'll try to send a signal back to Earth. Only, no one's listening for it, not this long after it died. There's no team hanging around JPL just in case a probe that's been dead for decades is resurrected by a marooned astronaut. Right?

That's where the Deep Space Network and SETI come in. Those two have the highest likelihood of picking up my signal, and if they caught _anything_ from Pathfinder, JPL would know within minutes.

The crew over there would be able to triangulate that back to me, they'd get Pathfinder to point the high-gain antenna at Earth, and bing-bang-boom we'd have contact. That antenna movement is how I'd know that the link was made.

No bueno as of yet.

But I've gotta go through all the possibilities, cause there's any number of reasons this could be happening. The rover heater is meant for working at 1 atmosphere, and the thinner Martian air is going to screw with its ability to get stuff done, so maybe I need to give it a bit longer.

Earth is only visible during the day and early nightfall. If I did everything correctly, I fixed Pathfinder late yesterday evening. There can't have been much time during the intervening hours where contact with Earth was possible.

Even so, I'll give it another checkup.

** Log Entry: Sol 97 **

Still nothing doing. The internals are at functional temperatures, but I'm getting no response. No signal, no movement, no nothing. I tore it down again and checked over the components and I can't find a reason it wouldn't be working out.

I sat with my back against Pathfinder's wheel for a while watching the sunset, and I was able to spot the pinprick light of Earth off in the night sky.

I don't think I'm making it back there.

I've never felt more alone.

** Log Entry: Sol 98 **

This fucking piece of fucking Martian trash.

I'm so fucking done, I'm going back to bed.

** Log Entry: Sol 99 **

So I may or may not have knocked the high-gain antenna off of Pathfinder in a fit of rage yesterday. So fucking what. I'm not fucking getting anywhere, it's not gonna fucking get me anywhere.

I'm going to die up here.

** Log Entry: Sol 100 **

I can't do this anymore, I can't-

** Log Entry: Sol 101 **

I sat at my desk with a needle full of morphine in my vein for three hours yesterday. My thumb resting on the plunger.

I wanted that control.

I wanted to go _my_ way, especially when nothing else is.

I couldn't do it, in case the fact that I'm logging right now didn't make that apparent to you.

I guess I've still got some miniscule scrap of hope that I didn't just spend three weeks and disgrace a historical landmark to get myself a heap of junk.

** Log Entry: Sol 101(2) **

I fixed Pathfinder back up today, got the high-gain antenna back on. Did another thorough component clean. I found a possible issue. It looks like some corrosion could've been a factor. I got it cleaned up. That should help.

I think I might have it this time.

Please, _please_ let me have it this time.

** Log Entry: Sol 102 **

Sojourner's still sitting here in the Hab with me, motionless as ever. It's been under the lights for days, and I have no fucking idea what the hell is wrong with it. Or even if there is anything. Maybe it's waiting for a command from Pathfinder.

Or maybe it's just as dead as I am.

PATHFINDER LOG: SOL 0

BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED  
TIME 00:00:00  
LOSS OF POWER DETECTED, TIME/DATE UNRELIABLE  
LOADING OS…

VXWARE OPERATING SYSTEM (C) WIND RIVER SYSTEMS  
PERFORMING HARDWARE CHECK:  
INT. TEMPERATURE: -34C  
EXT. TEMPERATURE: NONFUNCTIONAL  
BATTERY: FULL  
HIGAIN: OK  
LOGAIN: OK  
WIND SENSOR: NONFUNCTIONAL  
METEOROLOGY: NONFUNCTIONAL  
ASI: NONFUNTIONAL  
IMAGER: OK  
ROVER RAMP: NONFUNCTIONAL  
SOLAR A: NONFUNCTIONAL  
SOLAR B: NONFUNCTIONAL  
SOLAR C: NONFUNCTIONAL  
HARDWARE CHECK COMPLETE  
  
BROADCASTING STATUS  
LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL…  
LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL…  
LISTENING FOR TELEMETRY SIGNAL…  
SIGNAL ACQUIRED


	14. Chapter 14

"We've got something, there's a signal… yep, it's, yes! We've got Pathfinder coming in!"

Cheers resounded through the room. Kane traded high fives with nearby technicians as Indra punched her fists into the air and whooped heartily.

The new control centre was a pretty big deal in and of itself; it's taken the brains and brawn over JPL a bit over three weeks to hack together worn out computers, repair and network the components, and then install hastily coded software that could function in conjunction with the more modern Deep Space Network. They'd worked in shifts around the clock and had pulled the last hardware together in the repurposed conference room just two days before the signal had been received.

Kane shot a glance towards the single Associated Press camera team they'd allowed in, ensuring they were focused on the still-cheering crowd of technicians before he pulled Indra into a tight hug. "Holy fuck, Indra, you did it! Way to work your magic! Great fucking work!"

She swatted at his chest and smirked up at him. "Some of the credit goes to my team," she laughed. "Probably fifteen percent of the credit. They _did_ manage to get all this junk working for us just in time."

"And I'll make sure to thank them for that, starting with my new best friend here."

"Oh, I'm losing my spot?"

"You're losing your spot," he agreed with a grin, then tapped the shoulder of the headset-clad woman seated in front of them at the communications console. "Can I get a name, my new BFF?"

"Caris," she tossed back, her eyes staying glued to the screen.

"What are we looking at now?"

"The return telemetry goes out automatically, and it'll be an eleven minute trip out there. Once Pathfinder receives it, it'll start high-gain transmissions, and we'll hear from it again in another eleven minutes after that, so a twenty-two minute roundtrip."

"Marcus has a physics doctorate, Caris," Indra interjected, "he might be a bit dense sometimes but you don't need to explain like he's five."

Caris laughed. "You never know with managers, boss."

"What came in with that transmission?"

"Just the basic, skeleton model. It went through a hardware self check, came up with a lot of errors and "nonfunctional" systems, cause they were built into the panels Griffin took off the body."

"And the camera?"

"Imager's functional. We'll send instructions to take a panorama ASAP."

* * *

** Log Entry: Sol 103 **

Fuck me, it worked.

Holy fucking shit it fucking _worked_!

I went out resigned to another morning of Pathfinder dead in the water, but nope! The high gain antenna's pointed _directly_ at Earth. There's no way Pathfinder has to know where _it_ is, let alone _Earth_ , unless it's getting a signal.

They've figured it out! They know I'm alive!

I'm fucking screaming!

Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck-

I'm crying, I'm full out crying, give me a second here. Oh my god. Holy fuck. Get it together, Griffin, holy fuck.

Alright, alright, alright. I'll have time to celebrate later; right now I've gotta get my communication groove on.

* * *

"We received a transmission from Pathfinder just over a half hour ago," Kane reported to the assembled press corps. "We immediately returned directions to take a panoramic image. We're hoping that Griffin will have put up some sort of message for us. Any questions?"

Hands shot up around the room.

"Diana," Kane called out.

"Thanks, Marcus." She tapped the point of her pencil against her notepad. "Has there been any contact made with Sojourner?"

"Not at this point in time, unfortunately. Pathfinder has been unable to link to Sojourner, and we've no other way to make contact with it, directly or indirectly."

"Do you have any idea what could be wrong with Sojourner?"

Kane shrugged and laughed. "Honestly, I can't even speculate about that. It's been on Mars for decades, at this point any number of things could've gone wrong with it."

"Could you give us a guess?"

"My best guess is she took it into the Hab. The Hab canvas would interfere with any signal transmission between the Lander and Sojourner." He pointed out another reporter. "You, you're up."

"Michael Lovejoy, NBC News," Michael said. "When you have the whole system up and running, how will you be communicating with Griffin?"

"She'll have to work that one out for us. All we've got is the camera. She can write things out and hold them up to the lens, but us speaking back at her will be more difficult."

"Why's that?"

"All we have to use out there is a camera. That's the only thing that we can move right now. We can send data to her in any number of ways through how we rotate the platform, but we've no way to _tell_ her that's what we're doing. Griffin's in the driver's seat here, she's going to have to come up with something and we'll tag along behind her." He pointed to the next reporter. "Go on."

"Keenan Mykulak, BBC. You've said the roundtrip is twenty-two minutes, correct?" Kane nodded. "With only one rotating platform to use to talk to her, won't that be a painfully slow conversation?"

"It's less painful than other conversations I could be having," he replied, and he catches Indra's wince from the corner of his eye. "It's very early in the morning in Acidalia Planitia right now, and we've just passed 3AM here in Pasadena. We're looking to be here all night, and every night for the foreseeable future, until we come up with a better way to talk to her. That's going to be all for questions at this time, we should be getting the panorama back in a few moments. We'll be back out here at that point in time to bring you up to speed."

He ducked from the press room and joined Indra in hurrying down the hall back to the makeshift control centre, the JPL Director arching an eyebrow at him.

"Callie's going to kill me," he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Only if Jaha doesn't get to you first," she replied, elbowing hi in the side. "Don't stick your foot any further in your mouth next time you go out there, yeah?"

He grinned back over his shoulder as he pushed his way through the crowd towards the communications console. "No promises, Indra. You got anything, Caris?"

"Yep. But I'm on this black screen 'cause it's ten times more interesting that anything we'd pick up from Mars."

"Damn, Caris, you've got lip," Kane said.

Caris smirked up at him.

Indra nudged Kane. "There's still a few seconds left before we should get anything," she noted.

They watched the clock in silence.

"I've got something here," Caris said. "Yup, panoramic coming in."

The heavy tension in the room lightened as the image came through, slowly but surely, a single vertical stripe at a time.

"Surface," Kane called out, his fingers tapping against his legs. "More surface, more surface. Lotsa dirt up there."

"That's the side of the Hab!" Indra pointed at the screen.

Kane grinned. "Hab, more Hab, lots of Hab… wait, is that writing? That's a sheet of paper, that's a message!"

With each vertical stripe came more of a handwritten note, held up at camera height by a long, thin piece of metal.

"It's a note from Clarke!" Kane whooped.

The room broke out in applause, then quickly dropped back to rapt silence before someone piped up, "What's it say?"

Kane leaned forward over Caris' shoulder. "It says… 'I'll write questions here - Anyone receiving?'"

"Well…" Indra drawled.

Kane looked back and shrugged. "That's all she wrote."

"There's another one," Caris said, directing Kane's attention back to the incoming data.

"We've got 'Point for yes'," Kane called.

"Okay, okay, I see where this is going," Indra said.

"There's a third one," Caris added.

"'Point for no'," Kane read off. "'Will check back for answer often'." He put his hand on Caris' shoulder. "Good. We've got two-way comms with Clarke. Get that camera pointed at 'Yes', Caris, and then take pictures every ten minutes until another question goes up."

* * *

** Log Entry: Sol 103 (2) **

Fuck me, they said "Yes!" They said fucking "Yes!"

The last time a "yes" got me this hyped up, it was Lexa agreeing to my request to nix a morning 10K when all of us were hungover. (Okay, so maybe I wasn't exactly excited then, more just happy I could shove my face back into my pillow and only die a little bit, instead of trying to match Lexa's pace and dying a fuck-ton.)

And an hour longer in bed isn't exactly equivalent to regaining my _life_ , so that comparison might not have been the best, but fuck it, I don't care. My cheeks hurt from grinning so wide, and when I jumped to punch the air after following the line of the camera, I might have tripped over my own feet and ended up faceplanting in the dirt, and I don't fucking _care_!

Fuck, I'm crying.

I just-

I didn't dare to dream Pathfinder would make it through, you know? I went through the motions 'cause it was the thing to do, but I didn't really believe-

I didn't-

I had a needle in my arm three days ago-

I almost-

Fuck.

** Log Entry: Sol 103 (3) **

Sorry, I-

Just-

Sorry.

Fuck.

Uhm, where was I? Right, yeah-

Fuck it, give me another second, would you? I'm gonna turn this off again-

** Log Entry: Sol 103 (4) **

Okay. Okay. Okay. I'm okay, I'm okay.

I'm okay, I promise.

I'm okay.

I haven't got many writing surfaces to work with; we do most of our work on computers, so I'm left with fifty or so cards that were meant to be used to label sample batches. I can flip them over to use both sides, and should be able to scratch out questions to re-use them if need be.

My permanent marker's gonna last a lot longer than the cards do, so that shouldn't be an issue. Unfortunately, however, I've gotta keep my writing to the Hab, since it's pretty likely the ink would boil off outside in 1/90th of an Earth atmosphere. It's just me, hallucinogenic fumes, and that dancing purple elephant in the corner for now.

I kid, I kid.

Or do I?

Come in, NASA, I've discovered life on Mars by sniffing toxic fumes.

I figured out I can stick the cards up using torn down bits of the old antenna array. Isn't it ironic, don't you think?

Yes/no questions every half-hour sure as hell aren't gonna cut it, but luckily for me, the camera has a full range of rotation, and I have a ton of antenna parts that are entirely useless otherwise. What I need to finish out my setup is an alphabet. Only, the basic Latin alphabet isn't going to work for me. Twenty-six letters and a Question Card would only give me 13 degrees of arc to work with. No way in hell I'd know which letter the guys back home mean when they point the camera.

The solution? ASCII. It's how computers deal with characters. Each character is assigned a numerical code from 0 to 255. Any value between those two can be expressed by two hexadecimal digits. All NASA needs to do is point the camera at pairs of hex digits to send any character at all, from letters to numbers to punctuation. Easy-peasy, as long as I know what values are assigned to each character.

I turn to Mega-Nerd Raven Reyes for help here. Of course she's got an ASCII table stowed away on her laptop. Along with a gigabyte of emails I'm going to need to have a pretty fucking long talk with her about. Christ, Reyes, boundaries. Figure them out. I'm not about to let the bigwigs upstairs in on the content of said emails, but if you're hearing this, I'm fucking pissed at you.

But that's a fight for another day. The fight for my life comes first.

I'm gonna do 1 through 9, A through F. That should be fifteen - sorry, sixteen - sixteen cards to set up in a circle around the camera, and then add in my Question Card and I get seventeen. That'll give about 21 degrees of arc for each of them, which should hopefully be much easier to determine.

Let's get a move on here, Clarkey.

* * *

_Use ASCII. 0-F at 21 degree increments. Will watch camera 11:00 Mars time. Return to this position when message finished. After completion, wait 20 min to take pic so have time to write/post reply. Repeat every hour._

S…T…A…T…U…S

_Physically okay. Hab and components functional. On 3/4 rations. Cultivated soil in Hab to grow crops. Note: not crew's fault. Shit luck. Not Cdr's fault._

H…O…W…A…L…I…V…E

_Impaled by antenna. Decompression - > unconscious. Face down landing and blood sealed hole. Woke after MAV departure. Antenna destroyed bio-monitor. All signs I was dead. Not crew's fault, not Cdr's fault._

C…R…O…P…S…?

_Long story. Awesome botanist. 126m2 of farmland for potatoes. Food supply extended but won't makes Ares 4 landing. Rover modded, plan to get to Ares 4 site._

W…E…S…A…W…-…S…A…T…L…I…T…E

_NSA on my ass too? That gives me the heebie-jeebies. Need faster comms, this alphabet crap taking all day. Ideas?_

B…R…I…N…G…S…J…R…N…R…O…U…T

_Rover placed 1m due north of Lander. If contact possible, will draw hex numbers on wheels, can send six bytes at a time._

S…J…R…N…R…N…O…T…R…S…P…N…D

_Shit. Anything else? Need faster comms._

W…O…R…K…I…N…G…O…N…I…T

_Earth setting, resume 08:00 Mars time. Tell mom okay. Give crew my best. Tell Cdr Callaghan her taste in music sucks._

* * *

" _How is she?_ "

"You know as much as I do. Everything we've received has been released to the public." Abby inhaled sharply, but he cut her off before she could get started. "There's nothing more I can do here. We're talking to her with a fucking _camera_. I'm trying my best." He sighed and pressed at his temples. "We're all trying the best we can."

" _Your best isn't good enough_."

He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. "It's all we've got, Abby. I don't know what else to tell you."

She gave a caustic laugh. " _How about something that'll give me any hope you're not completely out of your depth here_."

"You're going to need to call up Thelonious for that, I'm afraid," he murmured. "I've got to go, but I'll keep you updated."

"You do right by her, Marcus, okay? You owe us that."

"I'm doing everything I can." Abby hung up with a click and he let his head fall back, looking up at the glow-in-the-dark stars sprinkled across the office ceiling. "I'm doing everything I can, I promise."

* * *

"Sorry, I'm a little sleep-deprived, forgive me for not remembering your name," Kane said, rubbing at his eyes as he took in the man before him.

"Atohl, software eng," he replied, wrinkling his nose.

"What've you got for me?"

"I- _We_ have worked out a way to communicate with Griffin."

"You've piqued my interest."

"We've been running through the Pathfinder software, just to see what we could find. Got it running on four or five computers. Turns out there's a process to update the operating system, and we could use that to code in anything we wanted. Such as reworking the secondary comms system so that it'll broadcast to the rover instead of to Sojourner."

"Wait, you can get it to register as the Hab signal?"

"Yeah. Only thing we can do, far as I can see it. The Hab's radio is dead in the water. Problem here is, the rover's not made to use the Hab signal for more than triangulating."

"You can get Pathfinder talking to the rover, but the rover's not gonna talk back?"

"Precisely. Our perfect scenario would be anything we typed going to the rover screen, and anything Griffin typed coming back to us. For that to happen, we need to update the rover, too."

"But we can't do that," Kane mused. "Because we can't actually talk to the rover."

"Not in so many words, but what we _can_ do is give Griffin the code, and have her enter it manually."

"And how much code are we looking at here? How big of a data patch?"

"It's gonna be 20 MB at a minimum. Or about three years of constant communication via the ASCII cards to get the info across. Not exactly what we're looking for."

"You've got a fix for this, though, right? You're here talking to me, so you must."

Atohl smirked. "Damn right I do. We're going to update Pathfinder's operating system, then send Griffin a bit of code. Twenty instructions that'll get the rover to write any bytes it receives into a log file before it checks whether they're valid. So information it'd usually just check and trash it'll instead keep a copy of as a file."

"Alright, alright…"

"Griffin hacks that into the rover, we broadcast the patch to Pathfinder, which then broadcasts it to the rover. The rover logs the bytes into a new file, Griffin launches the file as an executable file, the software gets patched, and voila, we've got comms!"

Kane narrowed his eyes. "That's it?"

"That's it," Atohl confirmed. "I thought you'd be a bit more excited by the news, to be honest."

"All we need to do is send those 20 instructions off to Griffin?"

"Send the code, tell her how to edit it in. And where to edit it in."

"That's all it'll take?"

"That's all."

Kane gnawed at his lip for a moment before his face broke into a grin. "Atohl. I'm gonna spot you and your team a thousand rounds of beer for this."

"Make them rum and cokes and you've got a deal."

* * *

"Kane here."

" _I need a shot of Griffin._ "

"'Good morning, Marcus. How was your night? How's the weather out in Pasadena?'"

" _Cut it out, Kane. I need a shot of Griffin_ ," Callie repeated. " _ASAP_."

"It's not that easy."

" _You're literally using a fucking camera to talk to her. How much easier could it possibly need to get?_ "

"We send the message, give her a twenty minute window, then take a picture. She's always back in the Hab by then."

" _Then tell her to stick around for the next one_ ," Callie ordered. " _How fucking dense are you?_ "

"We've got short windows, Callie. A message an hour. Earth-rise to Earth-set. I'm not gonna waste one of those to tell her to pose for a photoshoot. You're not even going to see her face, anyways, she's in an EVA suit."

" _Marcus, get me something. Anything. You've had comms for over twenty-four hours and the media's up my ass asking for an image. This is going up on every news site around the world, and I've got nothing to give them._ "

"You've got pictures of her notes. Those will have to do."

" _That's not enough. You've got your one AP guy over there, imagine him times a thousand at your throat demanding answers-_ "

" _That's what you signed up for, Callie. I don't know what more you expect_."

" _I expect you to work with me here. Get me a fucking picture in my inbox by tonight_."

"I can't do today, we've got more pressing things to deal with. It's going to have to wait. We're going to make an attempt at hooking Pathfinder up to the rover computer-"

" _I need it now, Marcus. Fuck me, I need it yesterday. The entire world has decided to give a shit about this, it's the biggest goddamn news since Discovery, so get me a fucking shot!_ "

Marcus rubbed at his eyes with his free hand and sighed. "Yeah, alright, I'll try when we're back in contact."

" _Fantastic!_ "

"No need for the sarcasm, Callie."

" _No need to have a stick up your ass 24/7, Markie_."

"Good _bye_."

" _By tonight, Kane_."

"Yep." He slammed the receiver down and leaned back in his chair with a groan. "Fuck me."

* * *

 

** Log Entry: Sol 104 **

In order to actually catch a message, I've gotta be watching the camera when it spins around and does the whole "Speak 'n' Spell" business. I get half a byte at a time, so I have to watch for a pair of numbers, then match them to my ASCII cheat-sheet to get one letter.

I don't want to forget anything, so I sketch them out in the dirt with one of the rods from the antenna array. All in all, it takes a couple seconds to go from byte to letter to dirt, and sometimes when I look back to the camera, I've missed a number. I can usually guess it pretty accurately from the context, but other times I'm just shit outta luck.

Today I was up way earlier than need be. I shoveled down breakfast, paced the Hab, looked in on my plants, did some unnecessary checkups on equipment, and about an hour had passed. I ended up sprawled on top of my lab table kicking my feet and sketching on the tabletop in marker. It was aimless at first, circles and swirls, but as I got closer to go-time I found some familiar features taking shape on the laminate.

Yes, Lex, you're forever immortalized on a lab bench in Acidalia Planitia. Right beside a drawing of a dick initialled _O.B._

Finally, 08:00 struck, and I headed outside to receive…

"CNHAKRVR2TLKCPTHFDRPRP4LONGMSG"

Yep, that one took me a moment too. "Can hack rover to talk with Pathfinder. Prep for long message."

I had to wrack my brain pretty hard to figure that out, but once I did I was jumping for joy all over again. With that setup, our only limiting factor would by transmission time! How fucking sick! I put a note up that said "Roger that" and headed back to the Hab still vibrating in excitement.

I wasn't entirely sure what "long message" meant, but I figured I should probably be ready for it. I headed out fifteen minutes early and evened out a huge patch of dirt, then scrounged up the longest antenna I could find, so I could reach across the patch without stepping on it.

And then I waited.

The message started exactly at the top of the hour.

"LNCHhexeditONRVRCMP,OPENFILE-/usr/lib/habcomm.so-SCROLLTILIDXONLFTIS:4HHT7,OVRWRT141BYTSWTHDATAWE'LLSNDNXTMSG,STANDINVIEW4NXTPIC20MINFTERTHSDONE"

Fuck me. Alright, okay.

So.

I'm supposed to launch "hexedit" on the rover's computer, open up the file /usr/lib/habbcomm.so, then scroll down until the index reading on the left of the screen is 4HHT7, then remove the bytes there and replace them with a 141 byte sequence I'll receive in the next message. Simple enough.

And they want me to hang around outside for the next picture. Not really sure why, seeing as you can't see any part of me when I'm in the suit. Even my faceshield will reflect the light so all you can see is silver. Still, so my overlords command and so shall I obey.

I headed back to the Hab and copied the message down to reference later. Then I wrote out a note and headed back outside. Usually I'd stick it up and return to the Hab, but not this time. Not every day you get to do a photoshoot on Mars, after all.

I spent most of time between receiving the message and the photo op trying to come up with a pose to do. I was wavering between the classic prom pose and then chin shelf for a bit, but I ended up opting for the sorority girl pose, leaning forward with my hands on my knees beside my note, which said "Set phasers to stun(ning)".

Sorry, but I'm gonna take whatever chance I'm given, even if I don't have the boobs to work it anymore. Fucking rations, fucking starvation macros.

Goodbye good Earth cleavage, hello Mars McFlat Chest.

* * *

" _I asked you for a picture, Marcus. Not Astronaut Barbie._ "

"Well, you got the picture," Kane replied before shoveling a forkful of noodles into his mouth and leaning forward to get a closer look at the schematics spread across his death.

" _I asked for one I could use! Why would she do that?_ "

Kane swallowed, then shifted the phone tighter against his head and laughed. "You _have_ met Clarke Griffin, right?"

" _True_ ," Callie sighed, " _She's a little shit. A little shit whose face I need a picture of ASAP_."

"No can do."

" _And why's that?_ "

"Hmm, maybe because if she takes the helmet off she dies? Oh, sorry Callie, gotta go, I've got a JPL programmer at the door, he says it's urgent. Later!"

" _Kane_ -" Callie shouted as he hung up.

"It's not actually urgent," Atohl corrected, and Kane smirked.

"Yeah, that's the beauty of it. What've you got for me?"

"This hack might get a bit complex, we might need a bunch of back-and-forth with Griffin to get it working."

"I understand, it takes as long as it takes."

"But we were thinking, if the transmission time were shorter we could get it done faster."

"And how do you suggest we do that? You have some interplanetary wormhole tucked up your sleeve?"

"We've got an amazing programmer sitting on the bench right now, and she's only four light-minutes away from Mars."

"Reyes stays out of this."

"She could talk Clarke through it in a fraction of the time it'd take us!" Atohl pressed. "She's the mission Sysop. This is literally her job description."

"It's not happening, Atohl. We still haven't told the crew."

"No disrespect, sir, but that's bullshit."

"Griffin's not the only person I'm trying to bring home safe," Kane growled. "I've got five other men out there in deep space who need their full attention on staying alive. That's final."

Atohl shrugged. "Fine. We do it the slow way."

* * *

 

** Log Entry: Sol 104 (2) **

Turns out transcribing 141 random bytes, half a byte at a time, is just as fun as it sounds.

Which is to say, not at all.

It's boring as fuck. At least I had a mechanical pencil.

'At least I had a pencil', I say, as if I didn't only reach that point after first doing something monumentally stupid.

I just wrote letters in the sand earlier so as not to waste any of my writing surfaces. But since I needed these numbers to be portable, I figured why not go with a laptop?

We all brought a laptop down with us, so I have six I can use. Rather, I _used_ to have six. Now I've got five. The liquid from the LCD boiled off before I even stepped out of the airlock. Shoddy workmanship, I'm going to post a review when I get home. "Product didn't function on surface of Mars. 0/10. Would not repurchase."

So I learned the lesson that NASA learned decades ago when they tried to make a pen work in space: simplicity will always win.

Sun's down, so comms are done for the day too. I'll head out to the rover tomorrow to hack this code in, and then I'll let the guys down at JPL go from there.

* * *

"Atohl, you're up, man. Come stand beside Caris," Kane called.

"Thanks." He slipped past Kane to stand at Caris' side. "Hey, Caris!"

"S'up, Atohl?"

"How long are we expecting the patch to take?" Kane queried.

"It'll be almost instantaneous," Atohl said. "Griffin hacked the rover a couple hours ago, and after she fixed a couple errors in transcription we confirmed she'd done it properly. We updated Pathfinder A-OK, and sent off the rover patch, so we're just waiting on Griffin to execute and reboot, and then we should be connected."

"Fuck, that's hard to follow."

"If you think that's complicated, you should try updating a Linux server," Atohl said.

After a beat, Caris leaned past Atohl and whispered, "he was trying for a joke there."

"Were you? Sorry, I'm more physics than comp sci."

"Oh, he's not funny to us, either."

"Go fuck yourself, Caris," Atohl said with a grin.

"Right back atcha, babe. Wait, here we are, system's up and running."

"What?"

"It's online. Just so you know."

"Fuck yeah!" Atohl cheered.

"We're a go!" Kane called out to the room.

\--

[11:18] JPL: Clarke, Marcus Kane here. We picked you up on satellite on Sol 49, and the whole world's been watching and cheering you on ever since. Getting Pathfinder was a stroke of genius, great work there. We're figuring out plans for your rescue. The brains here at JPL are adjusting the descent vehicle flying with Ares 4 to do a short overland trip from Acidalia Planitia to Schiaparelli. They'll pick you up and bring you with them to the Ares 4 MAV. We're stocking up a supply mission that'll keep you fed until then.

[11:29] GRIFFIN: Never been happier to hear something. Really, really looking forward to not dying here. I want to make it as clear as I possibly can that this wasn't the crew's fault. This wasn't Lexa's fault. Quick q, what'd they say when you told them I survived? How'd they react? Also, "Hi, mom, sorry for the scare!"

[11:41] JPL: Can you give us the specs on your "crops"? We calculated your food would last until Sol 400 if you kept it at 3/4 rations, do the crops affect that number at all? We haven't told them. We want them to concentrate on their own mission.

[11:52] GRIFFIN: I planted the potatoes we were supposed to have on Thanksgiving. They're flourishing, but I haven't got enough space for them to sustain me indefinitely. Food should run out around Sol 900. Also: tell them I'm ALIVE YOU FLOATING ASSHOLE! WHAT THE FLOAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, KANE! TELL THEM I'M ALIVE! TELL THEM I'M FLOATING ALIVE OR GO FLOAT YOURSELF!

[12:04] JPL: We're getting botanists in-house for more detailed questions and to make sure your work checks out. I know you don't like people looking over your shoulder, but your life is on the line here, so we want to be as sure of our numbers as possible. Sol 900 is fantastic news, gives us more leeway in getting the supply mission up and running. Watch your language, Clarke. I know astronaut slang technically passes censors, but it's still obscene. Everything you send is being broadcast live across the world, so keep it clean please.

[12:15] GRIFFIN: Float you, Marcus. Here, have a set of tits! -> ( . Y . )

* * *

"Thank you, Mrs. President," Jaha said into the phone, smoothing the lines from his forehead with his free hand. "I very much appreciate the call, and I'll pass your congratulations on to the whole of the Administration." He hung up with a heavy sigh, dropping his head into his hands only to be disturbed by the clearing of a throat from the doorway.

"This a good time?" Gustus asked.

"Come on in, take a seat."

Gustus moved stand in front of Jaha's desk instead, his arms crossed. "We had a good day today."

"Certainly did," Jaha agreed with a tired nod. "Another move closer to bringing Griffin home in one piece."

"And _alive_ ," Gustus added, narrowing his eyes. "But you still don't think that's going to happen."

"Hope is a very dangerous thing to hold on to, Gus. You know that as well as I."

He nodded stiffly and rubbed at his shoulder, a faraway look in his eyes. "Those Discovery broadcasts were the only thing I could think about when I was watching the incoming messages last night. That's why I'm here."

"Because you want to break the news to the crew that Griffin's alive."

"Yes."

"And you don't want Marcus here to oppose you, so you're mentioning this again while he's in Pasadena."

"This should've stayed _my_ call in the first place. Not yours, not Marcus'. I'm the flight director. Better yet, it should've stayed my decision because _I_ know the hell that they're going through right now. Because I _lived_ it, Thelonious."

"Don't pull that shit on me, Gus. Marcus and I lost them too."

"It's not the same and you know it. Even if we ignore that side of this situation, we agreed we'd tell them when there was hope. And there _is_ hope. We've got comms, we've got a plan, and she's buying herself the time we need to get to her."

"Then tell them," Jaha said.

Gustus blinked. "Really? Just like that?"

"I figured you'd be at my door sooner or later, so I thought it through already. Go on ahead, Gus."

"Right." Gustus nodded. "Yeah. Thanks." He turned and strode from the office, and Jaha spun his chair to look out his window at that night sky.

The faint red dot of Mars hung low above the horizon, faded against the bright spackle of stars. "Keep it up, Griffin," he said to the empty office. "We've got a plan. We're coming for you."


	15. Chapter 15

**February 24th, 2011, STS-133 Launch**

_T-1:59 GRIFFIN - Two minutes down there, boys and girls, make sure you don't forget about us._

_T-1:49 JOHNSON - It's the big red button, okay?_

_T-1:42 GRIFFIN - We even marked it for you._

_T-1:39 KERKOVICH - Nice bold letters, just to be safe._

_T-1:35 GRIFFIN - You kids got your harnesses locked?_

_T-1:32 CHU - What for, Jake?_

_T-1:29 KERKOVICH - Mel wants to float around a bit on liftoff._

_T-1:24 CHU - Well, I might need to grab something._

_T-1:10 JOHNSON - Anyone catch the Tampa game last night?_

_T-1:06 KERKOVICH - I've got Purcell on my fantasy team._

_T-1:03 JOHNSON - Lucky bastard._

_T-0:59 GRIFFIN - One minute downstairs._

_T-0:53 CHU - Cabin pressure's going to hit us with an alarm._

_T-0:50 GRIFFIN - Okay._

_T-0:48 GRIFFIN - Alright._

_T-0:44 JOHNSON - Alarm looking good._

_T-0:42 GRIFFIN - 10-4._

_T-0:37 KERKOVICH - Pressure in the left engine helium tank's looking a bit low._

_T-0:34 GRIFFIN - Was yesterday, too._

_T-0:32 KERKOVICH - Okay._

_T-0:30 GRIFFIN - Thirty seconds downstairs._

_T-0:24 CHU - Remember it's the blue button for roll call, Griff._

_T-0:22 GRIFFIN - Thanks for the reminder, Mel, really needed it._

_T-0:17 CHU - Got your back._

_T-0:15 GRIFFIN - Fifteen._

_T-0:07 GRIFFIN - There's ignition, guys._

_T JOHNSON - Alright, okay._

_T GRIFFIN - All three burning at a hundred._

_T+0:00 JOHNSON - Alright alright alright._

_T+0:01 CHU - Leggo boys._

_T+0:06 GRIFFIN - Houston, initiate Discovery roll program._

_T+0:10 CHU - That's a go on Houston._

_T+0:14 KERKOVICH - Floating hot._

_T+0:15 GRIFFIN - Watch your mouth, Ben._

_T+0:20 CHU - Lotta wind today._

_T+0:21 GRIFFIN - 10-4._

_T+0:22 GRIFFIN - Can't really see that from my window._

_T+0:29 CHU - Hitting 10K feet and Mach point five._

_T+0:31 [indistinct]_

_T+0:34 GRIFFIN - Point nine._

_T+0:39 CHU - We've got Mach one here._

_T+0:40 GRIFFIN - 19K._

_T+0:42 GRIFFIN - Down throttle for the mo'._

_T+0:57 CHU - Up throttle._

_T+0:58 GRIFFIN - Roger that._

_T+0:59 KERKOVICH - Feel that floating go._

_T+1:00 GRIFFIN - Ben._

_T+1:01 JOHNSON - Woohooooooo._

_T+1:03 CHU - 35K at 1.5._

_T+1:06 GRIFFIN - Reading airspeed at 486._

_T+1:07 CHU - Ditto._

_T+1:09 GRIFFIN - Roger that, up throttle._

_T+1:11 CHU - Shit._

_T+1:12 [indistinct]_

_T+1:13 GRIFFIN - Anyone have eyes on-_

_T+1:15 KERKOVICH - Float me, please, no!_

_T+1:16 JOHNSON - Oh God._

_T+1:19 CHU - Jake, grab my-_

_T+1:21 GRIFFIN - Can't… reach…_

_T+1:22 JOHNSON - My airpack, I can't-_

_T+1:23 [screaming]_

_T+1:25 KERKOVICH - Please, no, please, no, please-_

_T+1:27 CHU - Too hot, I can't-_

_T+1:30 GRIFFIN - Just breathe, just breathe-_

_T+1:31 JOHNSON - Ben, don't do that, settle-_

_T+1:33 CHU - It's melting on my-_

_T+1:34 [sobbing]_

_T+1:37 GRIFFIN - Come on, guys, stay with me._

_T+1:39 KERKOVICH - Not now, please-_

_T+1:40 JOHNSON - Mel!_

_T+1:43 CHU - I- I-_

_T+1:44 [sobbing]_

_T+1:45 GRIFFIN - Chu's down._

_T+1:46 JOHNSON - Float me._

_T+1:47 GRIFFIN - Houston, come in!_

_T+1:48 [screaming]_

_T+1:51 KERKOVICH - Dammit!_

_T+1:52 JOHNSON - Atlantic coming in-_

_T+1:54 KERKOVICH - We're dead, we're dead!_

_T+1:57 GRIFFIN - Abby, Clarke-_

_T+1:58 JOHNSON - Oh God!_

_T+1:59 GRIFFIN - I love you-_

_T+2:00 [sobbing]_

_T+2:03 GRIFFIN - Stay loose here._

_T+2:05 GRIFFIN - We've practiced this._

_T+2:06 GRIFFIN - Just a hard landing drill._

_T+2:08 JOHNSON - We've got this._

_T+2:11 KERKOVICH - In peace, may you leave this shore-_

_T+2:15 GRIFFIN - Grab my hand!_

_T+2:16 KERKOVICH - In love may you find the next._

_T+2:18 JOHNSON - Hold on, hold on!_

_T+2:19 KERKOVICH - Safe passage on… your travels, until-_

_T+2:22 [sobbing]_

_T+2:36 GRIFFIN - Until our final journey to…_

_T+2:38 [screaming]_

_T+2:42 JOHNSON - To the ground._

_T+2:43 [screaming]_

_T+2:47 GRIFFIN - May we meet… May we meet-_

_T+2:49 [sobbing]_

_T+2:52 JOHNSON - Jake?_

_T+2:53 GRIFFIN - My family-_

_T+2:54 JOHNSON - Just hold on… to the picture-_

_T+2:57 GRIFFIN - May we… meet again._

_T+3:01 [loss of contact]_

**Log Entry: Sol 106**

Now that NASA's got comms with me, they don't seem to shut the hell up. To be honest, I do a lot of ignoring their instructions.

But there is a big plus side to this: I'm getting email again, just like when I was up on the Ark. They've forwarded on mail from my mom and Wells, and cherry picked what messages from the public to shoot my way. I've received stuff from musicians, athletes, actors, and even the President herself.

I headed out to the rover five or six times yesterday to check on my messages, because they can transmit them across a hundred million miles of space but can't fucking get them another ten metres. Typical. But, I can't complain. I've finally got a chance at survival now.

I went out to the rover this morning to see if I'd gotten anything. Instead of the huge data dump that came my way a bunch of times yesterday, I found two lines.

'We're telling the crew' and today's date.

It's February 24th.

Fuck me.

**Mission Date 241**

Trips on the Ark to and from Mars were even busier than their days on the surface had been, Octavia had quickly relearned. Especially one crew member down. They were still buried under a backlog of work, even with almost four months of the overloaded routine under their belts.

Octavia tore her eyes away from the botany notebooks sprawled across her desk and focused on her movements instead, digging the heel of her hand deep into Raven's back and working at the knotted muscle. Raven flinched away from the pressure, and Octavia let up a bit. "You okay there, Rae?"

"Who wouldn't be in this position, babe?"

"Not many, that's for sure," she laughed, before smacking Raven's ass and turning away to wipe her hands clean. "You're good to go, up and at 'em."

Raven boosted herself upright and tugged her shirt back over her stomach, then rested her chin on Octavia's shoulder as she wrapped her in a one-armed hug. "Thanks, O."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." She shoved Raven away gently and took a peek at her watch. "We're just in time."

"Really? Sweet, race you down."

"Reyes, I just rubbed you out-"

"Yeah ya did!"

"Not what I meant! I just massaged you, don't you dare go tweaking your back again."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Raven called over her shoulder from halfway up the ladder. She bent a leg and leapt up into zero gravity, and Octavia gave a heavy sigh before racing after her.

They tussled their way along in zero-g, exchanging playful blows as they moved through the ship. Octavia caught Raven with a solid elbow to the gut that left her buckled over as they passed the reactor, and reached the Semicone-A ladder first. She announced her victory with a fistpump before sliding down the ladder, the centripetal force of the ship gripping her and pulling her down until her shoes hit the floor at 0.4g.

The artificial gravity helped keep them fit and was the main reason they'd still been able to walk when they'd landed on Mars. Spending hours in the gym kept their heart and muscles healthy, but it was the artificial gravity that had helped them make every minute on Mars useful from the time they'd touched down. And since the ship was already made for it, they were using the system on the trip home as well. No reason for them to spend more time out of commission upon their return than absolutely necessary.

Raven sidestepped Octavia as they entered the bridge and jogged across to take her seat amidst the rest of the crew, tossing back a cocky grin when Octavia rolled her eyes. She found a spot between Lincoln and Anya, who had a slight smile on where she stood watching the completion bar tick higher. "You're looking particularly cheerful, Peters."

"Some kids from one of the foster homes I volunteered with in Tampa went to the Lightning game last night with my tickets," Anya said, her smile breaking into a full-fledged grin. "I'm hoping I get some pics of that. I'm just praying they didn't take any with the astronaut, I fucking hate that damn astronaut. You waiting on anything?"

"I should be getting a few new journal articles in from some colleagues," she replied, wiping her hands on her pants. "Some old classmates at Yale, nothing all that big-"

"It's here," Raven interrupted. "I've sent the personal files to your laptops, and there's a telemetry update for Schmidt and a system update for me to deal with. Wait, and… there's a video message for all of us." She glanced towards Lexa, seated at her side.

Lexa nodded. "Go ahead and play it."

Raven clicked the video open and sat back.

"Ark, Gustus Frommelt here," the recording began, and Anya arched an eyebrow.

"Anyone got a clue why Gus is talking to us without going through the CAPCOM?"

Lexa glared across at her and she snapped her mouth shut with a chastised grimace.

"Crew, I've got something to tell you. There's no easy way for me to say this. Clarke Griffin survived."

Octavia drew in a sharp breath, the bottom dropping out of her stomach as her hand went to her mouth. She glanced over to see Lincoln's eyes widen a moment before his jaw dropped, and in front of them Raven slumped forward and hung her head. As she reached forward to lay a hand on Raven’s shoulder, she could see Anya look to Lexa out of the corner of her eye. The commander folded her hands into fists at her sides as her face went white.

"I know this is a shock and it's going to hit you hard. I know you'll be right back at me looking for answers the moment this message is over. Until then, I'm going to lay out the basic facts for you.

"She's active and healthy. We discovered she'd survived two months ago and made the decision not to tell you. We've had to censor personal messages to ensure that silence was kept; Blake, your brother's been sending a lot more than those two line e-mails you've been receiving. You guys know me, so you've got to know that I was very, _very_ against that decision."

"No shit," Anya commented, and Octavia loudly shushed her, her eyes not leaving the screen though the corner of her mouth jumped at the mention of her brother.

"I was given clearance to tell you now because we're finally in direct contact with her. We achieved text communications with her last night. And, before you jump down my throat, we've got a plan to get her back. At this point, we're looking at Ares 4 using a modded MDV to pick her up so they can bring her home. Reyes, she told me to let you know she's sorry that you won't be in on that venture.” Raven tipped her head against Octavia’s hand, and she could feel her mouth pull into a smile against her fingers.

"We'll be sending you the full write-up of the events of Sol 6 and onward soon, but I want to make something very clear to _all_ of you. It's not your fault. Clarke reiterates that _very_ strongly every time the topic is brought up. It was just shit luck, that's all.

"We're going to give you some time to take this in. We've taken all science off your schedules tomorrow, so you have the day to decompress. Use it well, guys, and make sure to lean on each other and support each other through this, okay? Shoot any questions our way and we'll do our best to answer them as completely as possible. Frommelt out."

The end of the message left Octavia reeling in a stunned silence and she pressed her hand down on Raven’s shoulder in an effort to keep herself upright.

Raven shifted beneath her and reached up to run her hands roughly through her hair before letting out a wet laugh. "Fucking Griffin. Of fucking course." Her voice cracked, and her hands shook as she brought them down to her mouth. "I can’t- I have to- I need to go."

Octavia swallowed hard when Raven pulled away and hurried from the room, and she startled as Lincoln threw an arm around her shoulder. "She lives," he crowed, and she grinned at his elation before looking to where Lexa still sat staring at the blank computer screen, unmoving.

Octavia took a step forward, Lincoln’s embrace only stoking the excitement building in her gut. "Holy shit. Holy fucking _shit_! She's alive! Commander, she's alive!"

Lexa clenched her jaw.

"Lex," Anya started from her back.

Lexa stood abruptly, her chair screeching back across the floor, and headed for the door.

**Log Entry: Sol 106 (2)**

I think they might've been trying to comfort me by telling the crew about me today.

It's not working.

**Log Entry: Sol 106 (3)**

If I tear apart the rest of the MDV, I figure I'd be able to cobble together a still for myself.

If only I could spare the potatoes to brew up some vodka.

**Log Entry: Sol 107**

I miss my dad.

**Log Entry: Sol 107 (2)**

I heard Discovery go down as it happened.

I sat at Gus’ desk with my Sojourner clutched to my chest and I listened to my dad and his crewmates die.

I don't want Lexa to have to go through that again.

I don’t want to be in contact with them when I go down.

**Mission Date 242**

Anya rolled over for the third time in as many minutes and groaned into her pillow. She stayed there, face down, long enough to let out a frustrated breath before kicking off her blankets and rolling out of bed.

The lights were low after curfew, but Anya could make it to the bridge blindfolded by the third month of their mission. She settled into the pilot’s chair, grabbed the system check booklet out from beneath the seat, and set to work.

The hydraulics in her seat hissed as she shifted her position and she sighed heavily. It was ironic that out of everything on Earth, she missed the quiet the most. Space was a vacuum, but it had been months of fans whirring and panels crackling; of intake vacuums chugging and air purification systems beeping as the ship worked to keep them alive.

Anya just wanted silence.

She tipped back in her seat and closed her eyes, let the sounds of the ship wash over her as she rested the booklet on her chest. She'd become well-attuned to the low rumble, no matter that she despised it, and it didn't take much out of the ordinary for her to feel anxious.

And the constant thud coming from the direction of the gym? That sure as hell set her teeth on edge.

She pulled herself up one ladder and slid down another, the noises growing louder as she padded along the hallway.  The noise was more familiar now, the telltale _crack_ of flesh against steel. She slowed as the entrance to the gym came in view, light creeping into the hall through the door left open in someone’s haste to enter. Her feet grew heavier as she crept closer, her gut twisting with a sense of foreboding of what she was about to find.

Red splattered across dented chrome. Blood dripped from raw knuckles and streaked across cheeks already shining with sweat. Anya hesitated for a second, the feeling of knowing what she would find different from actually seeing it, before weaving her way across the tightly-packed room and lunging forward to grab Lexa by the elbow mid-swing.

"Lex- _Lex_ -” Lexa threw her off and swung again, her fist crunching against the steel. Anya lunged again, moving to pin Lexa’s arms against her side as Lexa fought against the hold. “Callaghan! Hey! Stop! _Stop it!_ "

The next attempt at a punch threw Lexa off balance and Anya moved. She pushed forward until Lexa was wedged between Anya and the wall, back heaving against Anya’s front. They stood in silence, Lexa’s heavy, shuddered gasps filling the space around them as she choked down sobs and mumbled incoherently. Anya carded her fingers through Lexa’s hair, murmuring calming words against her shoulder until her breaths came slower and her body stiffened.

“Better now?” Anya asked, pulling back far enough that Lexa could turn and face her.

Lexa shook her head, reached up to wipe at teary cheeks and winced hard when her split knuckles made contact with the salt. “No,” she choked out. “I _left her_ , Ahn. I left her there to die.”

"They have plans to bring her home, Lexa."

She cleared her throat and stood straighter. "That’s not enough. The timeline's too tight; there's no way they can get her. There aren't any solid contingencies in place to deal with something like this."

"Lex-"

"I signed her death certificate the moment I told you to take off. This,” she looked to the side, jaw clenching as her gaze fixed out the window. “This is just a slight delay of the inevitable."

“You can’t blame yourself for this, Lexa.”

"It's Daraa all over again."

"It's not comparable."

"I made the wrong call and people died, just like now. How is that not comparable?"

"Because she's _not_ going to die. Do you hear me? Clarke Griffin is too damn stubborn to let something like this take her down." Lexa screwed her eyes shut and gave a short nod. "But you? Fucking up your hand in the middle of fucking _space_? That’s an unnecessary and _stupid_ risk.”

"I _know_ ," she bit out through clenched teeth. "I know, I know, I know. I couldn't help it, Ahn. It hasn't been this bad since-"

"Since your last tour," Anya finished for her. "You're not that hotheaded brat of Army lore anymore. You're the Commander, and you need to act the part."

“They never should have named me to this position, Ahn. It should have been you.”

“Don’t go there.”

“You know it’s true.”

“I know that if it’d been me, we never would’ve gotten off the ground.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I do, because you brought something that I never could have to this position.”

“And what’s that?”

“Griffin. And she was a fucking _nightmare_.”

That stopped Lexa. She turned and looked at Anya for the first time since Anya walked into the gym. Anya met her gaze unflinchingly.

“Did you know Raven and Octavia only stopped bitching at each other because Raven kept Octavia calm enough not to punch Griffin in the throat for her attitude? Or that Lincoln and I quit arguing about his ‘violence is never the answer’ policy because Griffin got under his skin so badly that he actually started to consider my point of view? _She_ was the one saying we were never going to work, so the rest of us bonded just to spite her.” Anya let go of Lexa and took a step back. Lexa stared at her in disbelief.

“How is any of this supposed to make me feel better?” Anya moved to lean against the wall beside her.

“Because when she finally got that stick out of her ass, she was the one who held the heavy bag for Octavia when Octavia got the news that her mom died. She was the one who went to every physical therapy appointment with Raven so Raven could stay in the program.  She’s the one who went to her mom to get Lincoln’s brother a VIP tour of that hospital Abby was visiting in Germany, and the one by my side every day I spent with the kids because I mentioned some of them had an interest in art. Griffin may have been an asshole, but our crew didn’t really work until we got _Clarke_. And we only got her because of you.”

Lexa snorted. “Because of her right hook.”

“Because of her fucking beautiful right hook.” Anya echoed back, grinning. Lexa returned the grin before looking down at her feet.

“I left her there, Anya. She’s alone.”

“Yeah, she is. But do you think she would want you to react like this? I mean, shit, Lex,” Anya reached out and took Lexa’s wrist in her hand. “What do you think her reaction would be if she saw your hand like this?”

“It’s fine-”

“Oh, what, so you’re a doctor now?” Her tone was harsh, but she kept her touch soft as she pressed at the back of Lexa’s hand. “I think you broke it. Octavia needs to get a look at it.”

“That can wait. I’ve deprived them of enough, I don’t need to add sleep to that list. I’ll last until the morning.”

Anya sighed and conceded with a nod. “You’re seeing her right after breakfast, though. No complaints.”

“No complaints,” Lexa agreed with a weak smile as the overhead lights timed out. Anya went to move, and Lexa rested her hand on her wrist. “Could we just stay here for a couple minutes?”

Anya nodded. She slipped her arm around Lexa and pulled her closer, Lexa’s head coming to rest on Anya’s shoulder.  “We can stay here for as long as you need, Lex.”

**Log Entry: Sol 108**

Being awake is hell, but in my sleep I’m haunted by my dad.

I’m not sure which is worse.

**Log Entry: Sol 108 (2)**

Yesterday sucked and today still does, and NASA keeps trying to climb up my ass and refusing to send stuff on from the crew. Fuck them. I’ve checked in on comms, I’ve done my due. I'm going back to bed.

**Log Entry: Sol 108 (3)**

I dug Lexa’s sweater out from the box of her gear and put it on and it fit perfectly.

It shouldn’t fit perfectly.

**Mission Date 243**

“Pen, babe?” Lincoln reached behind him and grabbed one off the counter, tossing it across to where Octavia lounged upside down on the surgical chair with her feet kicked up against the headrest.

Octavia reached out to catch the toss as it went wide. “Thanks.” She uncapped it with her teeth and jotted down a few lines in the notebook she held propped open against her thighs, then closed them both up and tossed them onto the countertop.

“Are you prepared to work on her now?” He moved to her side as she swiveled upright in the chair, and reached out to trace shaking fingers along the line of her jaw.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she sighed, leaning her cheek into his touch and then turning ever so slightly to press a kiss to his palm.

Lincoln nodded and drew his thumb across the ridge of her cheekbone. “Would you like me to bring her in?”

“Yes, please.” Her face followed his touch when he withdrew his hand, and he gave her one last slight smile over his shoulder before he left the sickbay.

Lexa leaned against the wall just outside of the door, her chin tucked to her chest and her hand cradled against her stomach. She glanced up at Lincoln when he emerged and gestured towards the door. “Is Blake all set?”

Lincoln nodded and motioned her inside, taking up a spot by the door as Lexa settled herself down in the surgical chair.

“Do you think I’m going to try to run, Blake?”

Octavia pushed lightly against Lexa’s shoulder until Lexa leaned back into the chair. “Word on the street is you can be a rather difficult patient, Commander.” She reached back, pulled the x-ray screen forward and into place over Lexa’s hand, and then flipped the machine on.

Lexa ground her teeth and looked away towards Lincoln as Octavia manipulated her hand. “How’s it going, Schmidt?” She gritted out, before hissing through her teeth.

His fingers tapped a staccato beat on his thighs as he shrugged. “I am fine, Commander,” he murmured, stepping forward when she bit back a curse. “Unlike you.” He reached out a trembling hand and she latched on, gripping his fingers tightly and squeezing even harder when Octavia palpated her palm.

“What are you talking about? I’m perfectly okay,” she replied with a wan smile. “Never been better.”

“Well, even if _you_ haven’t,” Octavia interrupted, pushing the x-ray screen back behind her and turning to Lexa, “your hand has been.” She grabbed a tablet off the counter and held it out between them. “You broke your fourth and fifth metacarpals, and the distal phalanx of your pinky finger.” She zoomed in on the x-ray image. “Both metacarpal fractures are displaced, and I’m going to have to open your hand up in order to reduce them as soon as possible. Do you want a local or something orally?”

"I don't require anesthetic or a sedative-"

Octavia lowered the tablet and pinned Lexa with a glare. "Will you _please_ quit trying to punish yourself."

"I need-"

"No. I'm going to stop you right there. I don't mean to be disrespectful, Commander, but shut your damn mouth. What happened with Clarke was an _accident_.”

"That doesn't change the fact that this is on me."

"And you thought, what,” Lincoln interjected, glancing between them,“that breaking three of your bones was going to change anything? Gustus is not going to be pleased."

"What Gus doesn't know won't hurt him."

“Yet it may hurt _us_. You must tell him, Commander. He needs to know that we’re shorthanded, no matter the reason.”

“We’re only short one hand.”

Lincoln groaned, and Octavia snorted as she turned towards the counter. “Didn’t realize it would take pain to bring out your sense of humour, shitty as it is.” Octavia dragged the wrapped surgical tray across the countertop and tapped her fingers on the edge of the counter as she looked the equipment over.

"Get on with it, Blake," Lexa growled.

Octavia turned back and shook her head firmly. "I’m not comfortable operating on you without an anesthetic, Commander.”

"It's my decision. Do your job or I'll find someone else who will."

"Who, Peters? No matter how good she is in a pilot's chair, she can't keep her hands steady to save her life. Or yours, for that matter."

"Oh, I know. I'd at least get Reyes."

“She almost failed the training, too, and Lincoln’s not gonna stitch you up without one, right?” He nodded. “So it’s down to me, unless you’re up for self-surgery.” Lexa’s head rose, and Octavia swore under her breath. “No. _No_. That was a joke, not a suggestion. It’s down to me, and I _am_ going to do my job, Commander.”

“You can do it without anesthetic.”

“That’s not the point-”

“Those are your orders, Blake.”

“No, you know what? I’m going to cut the bullshit. Doing this without anesthetic is going to _h_ _urt_. Do you know how much innervation there is in the hand? Tens of _thousands_ of nerve endings.”

“I can handle it,” Lexa snapped.

“Feeling that is not going to bring her here,” Lincoln chided. “It is not going to make her presence there any easier on you.”

He looked over to find Lexa’s eyes shining.  

“Beyond the pain,” Octavia started, voice growing stronger, “doing that surgery without anesthetic is going to put you into severe shock. You’re going to go downhill rapidly, from anxiety to restlessness to confusion. Your blood pressure will drop. Your breathing will slow. In the best case scenario, I have you under intensive care for a couple of days. Worst case scenario? You die.”

Lexa clenched her jaw and raised her chin.

Octavia shook her head. “If you make me do this, I’m going to have to tell NASA about it. I’m going to have to tell the crew about it.”

“Then tell them.”

Lincoln shook his head. “Commander, Blake means that she will have to tell _all_ of the crew.”

Lexa’s face blanched.

Octavia nodded.

Lexa swallowed once, hard, and closed her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Give me a general.”

Octavia passed him an IV kit across Lexa’s stomach. He tore open the disinfectant pad and swiped it across the crook of Lexa’s arm, the alcohol cool on his fingers, and Lexa flinched at the touch. Lincoln opened his mouth, but she shook her head quickly.

“I’m okay.”

He took an IV needle, his fingers hesitant as he unwrapped it. He cleared his throat. “You are making the right choice.”

She nodded.

Lincoln brought the needle to her arm, his hand wavering, and as he pressed the tip against his skin it slipped from his grip and fell to the floor.

The landing echoed through the silent room.

Lexa’s gaze snapped to meet his, and when he moved to avoid her eyes, Octavia’s gaze pierced through him. “Schmidt, you can step out if you need to,” Octavia said slowly, her brows furrowing in confusion as she watched him.

“I can do it.” Lincoln’s hand shook as he reached out for Octavia to pass him a new needle.

“Schmidt, step outside please,” Octavia restated, her voice sharper. She motioned towards the door, and followed him out into the corridor. “What’s going on?” She whispered once she’d shut the door behind them.

He ran his hands up and down his face, then skirted them across the stubbled sides of his head. “I do not know if I should be in there,” he admitted.

“I didn’t know you had a problem with blood, Linc.”

“It is not the blood that worries me.”

“Then what?”

He raised his hands between them and tried to hold them still, but they shook uncontrollably.

“How long has it been? How did I not _notice_?”

“Only since we received that message.”

“Have you been eating enough? Had more coffee or tea than you usually would? You’ve been sleeping well- Are you anxious? Is that it? Are you-”

“Octavia.”

“No, I need to-”

Lincoln reached out and took her face in his hands. “You need to look after the Commander. I will still be here when you are done.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m going to need help. Can you get me Reyes?”

“I shall.” He leaned down to press a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Good luck, mein Bärchen.”

“I don’t need luck. I have skill.”

“Very well. Good skill, then,” he replied with a laugh, and headed down the corridor.

**Log Entry: Sol 109**

The sweater still smells like her.

I woke up with my face buried in the sleeve and it still-

It still smells like her.

**Log Entry: Sol 109 (2)**

Everything feels so heavy.

I need to go out to the rover.

I need them to know I'm still okay, but I can’t even get myself out of bed.

**Mission Day 244**

ARK: I don't care what time it is there. I want your flight plans. I want your schematics. I want to be damn sure you don't float this up.

CAPCOM: Reyes, I'm not going to pass this on to our teams. You're going to give them anxiety. We have this under control, okay?

There was a noise at the door and she spun in her chair to find Anya leaning against the frame. “What’re you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same, Rae. My bed’s been pretty cold lately.”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t go to sleep. CAPCOM said she didn’t check in today, I need to know the moment something happens, I need to-”

“You know how Griffin is. When she’s not happy about something, she gets in a snit and shuts herself away.”

“She can’t do that. Not when we’re counting on her.”

“NASA probably hasn’t even told her we know.”

“Why the hell not?”

“They didn’t tell us for three months, would that really surprise you?”

Raven snorted.

“They’re just doing what they think is best, Rae. For us and Clarke. Even if it is shit.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to kill yourself like this, either.”

“I’m not the one who’s gonna be dying over this-”

“For the love of- Clarke isn’t dying, Raven!”

Raven stepped forward until she was nose to nose with Anya. “And how would you know that, huh? What do you know about what happens when she runs out of potatoes, if the Water Reclaimer breaks down, when _something_ goes wrong. Who are you to say she isn’t going to die? You’re just a _fucking_ _pilot_!”

“Don’t give me this shit right now-”

“Why not? You wanted to talk so let’s talk, Ahn.”

“I wanted to talk, not give you free rein to tear my fucking head off.”

“It’s been three days since we got the news and you act like nothing’s changed. You’re acting like nothing’s happened, like you don’t care that she’s down there. Alone."

“How the _hell_ would you know, when you’ve been hiding out in here for that entire time?”

“I’m trying to _fix_ this!”

“Why do you have to be the one to fix this, Raven!?”

“Because it’s my fault!” Raven screamed.

“That’s bullshit and you know it!”

“I’m the one that read the packet wrong, _I’m_ the one that told Lexa that she was _gone_. That there wasn’t anyone to save!”

“I took off, I abandoned her. We still had time, the MAV would’ve stayed upright longer; if I’d let her stay out there-”

“You followed orders, Anya.”

“But I didn’t _do_ anything _._ ”

“Well, you’re not doing anything now, either!”

“I’m trying not to break!”

“Because god forbid you feel something about this situation!” She reached up and shoved Anya backwards. “Break! Scream, shout, _do_ _something_!”

“And what will that do, huh? What will that do when Lexa is off breaking her fucking hand and you haven’t slept in three fucking days? Tell me Raven, _what will that do?"_

“Show you care!”

“I _do_! You think I watched Lexa pound herself to a pulp against a wall and felt _nothing_? I’m trying my best to keep myself together for the rest of you, because I’m not about to let this crew fall apart over this. Lexa doesn’t need me screaming in her face about how fucking _selfish_ she’s being, not when she’s tearing herself to pieces all over again. Octavia doesn’t need me crying on her shoulder when she’s got Lincoln to watch out for. No one needs me emoting, they’ve all got enough to deal with-”

“That’s what I’m supposed to be here for-”

“You’re _not_ there. You’re sitting up here at the computer and driving yourself mad over something that’s not your fault. You’re destroying your body and your head, and I’m _terrified_ that I’m going to lose you to this. You’re not there, you’re not _here_ , and it feels like there’s nothing I can do to _fix it_. I feel like I’m losing you, Rae, and I don’t- I don’t want to-”

Raven grabbed Anya by the front of her sweater and tugged her forward, burying her face in the crook Anya’s neck as Anya did the same, her tears hot on Raven’s skin. Her knee buckled, her back groaning at supporting the extra weight, and she dropped to the floor, Anya following her, her body shaking with sobs.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” she murmured, swallowing a sob and pressing her lips to Anya’s temple. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Because we’re stuck on a spaceship together,” Anya replied with a wet laugh.

“Because I’m still in this,” Raven corrected firmly, reaching up as Anya sniffled and thumbing tears from her eyes. “I promise.”

Anya pressed her face into Raven’s shoulder.

“You’re not just a pilot,” Raven said, combing her fingers through Anya’s hair. “I’m sorry, I- I shouldn’t have said that. You’re so much more.”

“It was a dick thing to say,” Anya mumbled into her shirt.

“It was wrong, and I’m so, _so_ sorry I lashed out. You’re smart, and you’re capable, and you’re so much, Ahn. You’re _everything_.”

“Oh, I like the way that sounds.” She wraps her legs around Raven’s hips and snuggles into her. “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m just worried about you, you know? You haven’t slept, you’ve barely eaten-”

“Well, we can get at least one of those two dealt with right now,” Raven said, pressing Anya back slightly so she could struggle to her feet. Raven held a hand out to Anya and helped her up. “Let’s head to bed, alright?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Raven twined her fingers through Anya’s and led her through the corridors, only letting her go in order to tackle ladders. They slipped into Anya’s bunk with furtive glances towards the other doors, and closed the door behind them as stealthily as they could manage.

Raven kicked off her shoes and pulled the sheets back, and fell onto the bed, too lazy to undress. A tired smile grew as she watched Anya pull her sweater over her head, and she patted at the mattress beside her.

Anya burrowed under the covers and tugged Raven’s arm around her waist. Raven gave a light squeeze, her breathing coming easier as Anya relaxed into the embrace. She pressed her nose into the back of Anya’s neck, grinning when she shivered at the cold. “I love you, Ahn. You know that, right?”

Anya let out a shuddering breath and nodded. 

**Log Entry: Sol 110**

I need to run, sprint, push myself to my limits, because it feels like that might be the only way to stave off this feeling that I'm drowning.

I wish I'd never woken up today.

**Log Entry: Sol 110 (2)**

I feel like my lungs are starving for air, I can't-

**Mission Day 245**

CAPCOM: Mission Control will allow you to initiate monitored communications with Griffin tomorrow at 1100 hours. All messages will be censored as the Director finds necessary.

Raven finished reading out the message and tapped absently at the desktop, and Lexa turned to her, her brow furrowed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it; that’s all she wrote.”

Lexa clenched her jaw and gave a slight nod, then turned from the computer. “Alright, alright, get on with you, go read your mail.” She reached the door ahead of the remainder of the crew as they dispersed, and headed for her quarters.

She sat on the edge of her bunk and scratched beneath the edge of her cast as she surveyed herself in the small mirror opposite. The circles under her eyes had only grown darker over the past few days, and there was a scratch under her left eye from where she’d scrubbed too hard cleaning her blood from her face. Lexa huffed and reached out to trace a finger over the photo of the crew wedged in the mirror frame. Her gaze flicked from face to face, came to rest on Clarke for a long moment before moving on to herself. She’d looked so much healthier, back then. They all had.

She bent to slide a slim white box out from beneath her bunk and hefted it up so she could cradle it under one arm. It had sat there undisturbed for the better part of four months, but now she had the stomach to look at it again, even if it still made a fist tighten around her heart.

She tapped the photo on the way out of her quarters, as had become her routine, her fingertips lingering on Clarke before she flicked off the lights. She made her way up and down ladders, through corridors, until she reached the observatory module. The room sat at the fore of the ship, a hexagonal prism with circular windows on all six outer sides. Lexa drifted in from the corridor and dragged the door shut behind her, letting the box hang in the air in the middle of the capsule.

She curled up against one window with a small sigh and pulled the box down towards her. GRIFFIN was scrawled across the top in big, looping capitals, and she traced the markings with the forefinger of her casted hand, the corner of her mouth pulling up into a slight smirk.

The day they’d spent pulling together their boxes of personal items had been a mess, to put it lightly. Everyone’s belongings had gotten pretty mixed together in the years they’d spent with each other, and combing through dorm rooms for this exact photograph and that specific lapel pin had quickly turned into games of tag and keepaway. All six of them had ended up cuddled up on a pair of mattresses they’d pushed together in one of the rooms.

Tears pricked at her eyes and she angrily swiped them away with her sleeve and popped the lid off the box. She catalogued the contents with a sweeping glance; they’d packed theirs side by side, trading off stories as  they went, and she knew the contents of Clarke’s container almost as well as she knew her own. There was one thing she didn’t recognize, however, and she picked up the thin memory stick and flipped it over in her hand to read the label.

 _JG_.

Lexa cradled the memory stick in her palm and took a shaky breath. She straightened her shoulders and reached above her, docking the drive in the wall port.

There was one filename populating the list that showed on the screen above her, and Lexa exhaled slowly before clicking the file.

_“Abby, Clarke-”_

_“I love you-”_

_“May we… meet again.”_

Lexa’s breath was torn from her lungs in a sharp gasp. She swallowed hard and took another look at the filename, her heart sinking.

_02242011_

She pressed play again. The telltale static of NASA shuttle comms was clear this time, and a sob caught in her throat. Lexa had known Clarke had been listening when her father had died, but she had never realized exactly what that had meant. That Jake Griffin’s last thoughts had been of his wife, his daughter, the life he’d left behind on Earth. That Clarke’s last memory of her father was him proclaiming his love for her as he went down in flames.

She cradled her cast to her chest, tears puddling on her cheeks and lungs gasping for air. In his last moments, Jake Griffin had been able to say the things she never had. She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye, when she’d thought she’d left Clarke for dead. Before she’d learned she’d left Clarke to die. She might never get a chance to tell her she loved her.

And Clarke. Clarke’s last words directed at her- Lexa sopped the pools of tears up with her sleeve and sniffled.

_“Hey, are you okay?”_

Clarke’s last words directly to her had been looking after her welfare, and Lexa?

_“Stay on the open channel, Griffin."_

She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest heaving. They had gotten permission to be on comms with Clarke the following day, but that wasn’t the _same_. It wasn’t in person, it wasn’t face to face.She might not ever get a chance to look after Clarke the way Clarke had tried to look after her. Not without having her words redacted and modified by NASA. Not _directly_.

She’d had so many chances to say so much-

Lexa stared out the nearest window at the expanse of stars.

She sobbed.

**Log Entry: Sol 111**

I'm not okay. I'm barely getting through. My head feels like it's coming to pieces.

I can’t die on them. I won’t let them go through that again.

It's simple survival now.

First order of business? Go check my comms.

** Log Entry: Sol 111 (2) **

They’re letting me talk to them!

This is going to take a fucking long time, what with transit time between Mars and Earth, and then Earth and the Ark, but I get to talk to them!

I get to talk-

Shit.

What the hell am I going to say?

**Mission Day 246**

“I’m not sure what happened to the data sets, they’re not compiling properly.” Lexa took a seat beside Raven. “You have time to help me with them?”

“Yeah, no problem. Just give me a second to pull the data up.”

She tapped away at the keyboard, moving quickly through the interface until she had Lexa’s information up on her screen.

Lexa reached forward over Raven’s shoulder and flicked through the file. “I’ve done the calculations out longhand, and these aren’t the outputs that I should be getting from the program. They’re not even close. I’ve checked through all the datasets three times over; I think there might be a incorrect command somewhere in the code.”

“Have you made any changes to the original code?”

“I did some refactoring so that it’d take into account ground and atmospheric conditions we hadn’t anticipated.”

Raven read through the code in silence for a few minutes, Lexa lounging against the desk at her side, and then she laughed. “Sorry, but you haven’t actually refactored this. You refuctored it. I’m not going to be able to undo the changes you made. We’re gonna have to request CAPCOM sends a new copy of the original program when we’re on with them.”

“I could try to backtrack on my changes, if that’d help?”

“Just let the program die, Commander. You’re a enough of a disaster at coding as is.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Lexa replied airily, bumping shoulders with Raven.

Raven turned to look up at her, brows furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“Understand what, the data? It’s just basic soil profiles, I can-”

“No, I meant… you’re talking to me like everything is normal. How the hell do you not hate me?”

“Why would I-”

“Because it’s my fault we left her behind.”

“What are you talking about?”

Anya stood from her seat beside Octavia. “Lexa-”

“No. Reyes, tell me what you mean right now.”

“I screwed up on that bad packet. If I’d given you the right information, we’d have stayed for her.”

Lexa shook her head. “You read the same reports I did. The antenna shredded her computer-”

“It managed to send that data. There must have been more there, there must have been something I screwed up on. She’s _alive_ , there had to have been _more_.”

“ _I_ left her. _Me_. Don’t try to carry the weight of a decision I made on my own. This is not on your shoulders, Reyes,” she said, her voice low and strained. “This is on _mine_. I _left_ her. On a barren, unreachable, inhospitable _wasteland_.”

“That is _enough_.” Octavia lurched out of her seat, fists clenching at her sides as she shouldered past Anya and stepped between the pair. “Would you all just shut the hell up!”

“Blake,” Lexa warned.

“No! I am _done_. You didn’t make the wrong call, Lexa!” Lexa opened her mouth to argue but Octavia cut her off. “No, listen to me. Clarke was hit by an antenna in the middle of a storm where I couldn’t see Anya when she was less than a foot from my face. Her computer cut signal, there were no readings on any of our devices. You used the fucking proximity radar to try and find her, and when that didn’t work you tried staying out yourself. You made the call with the information you had, and everything pointed to her being _gone_.”

She turned to Raven and Anya. “And you guys? This isn’t on you, either, so stop pretending like it is. The three of you have been moping about all week and I’m absolutely _sick_ of it. This isn’t a pissing contest of pain! We’re all hurting, we’ve all _been_ hurting. This is a time for trying to be happy, not trying to one-up one another with guilt. All of you need to get your shit together, or I am _not_ going to let you talk to her.”

“ _Blake_.”

“I’m not kidding. This shit stays on this ship. Griffin’s isolated and she doesn’t need any of this little pity party weighing on her. Am I _understood?_ ”

Raven grumbled her agreement, but Lexa went to open her mouth again.

“No. We’re done. Commander, have a seat please.” She lightly hipchecked Lexa to the side when she went for the chair in front of the monitor, and shared a grin with Raven “Not that one. This is the last time you should be pecking away at the keyboard with that hand. I’ll type, okay?”

Lexa nodded at her side as she opened up the window with NASA. The cursor blinked on the screen.

Raven took the seat opposite Lexa.

Someone shuffled behind her.

“They said eleven, right?” Anya asked.

“That’s what they sent,” Raven answered.

“Should it be taking this long?”

“It takes as long as it takes.”

The computer pinged.

Octavia cleared her throat.

_“THIS IS MY SIXTH FLOATING MESSAGE BUT APPARENTLY NASA HAS SOMETHING AGAINST JOKES ABOUT SPACE CLEAVAGE SO I DON’T FLOATING KNOW. HI. HOW’S THE WEATHER. IT’S DRY HERE. A BIT WINDY. PROBABLY SOMEWHAT CHILLY BUT I’M NOT FINDING THAT OUT. AND, OH YEAH, VERY RED._

“ _ARE YOU HAPPY NOW NASA. FLOATING KILLJOYS._ ”

Anya burst out laughing. “Only Griffin, jeez,” she forced out, and Octavia glanced back to see Lincoln patting her back, a grin stretching across her face. Raven’s hand slipped into hers and squeezed, and she squeezed back, exchanging small smiles before she looked towards Lexa.

Lexa fought a smile and nodded back towards the computer. “Come on, Blake. What are you waiting for?”

Octavia set her hands on the keyboard and began to type.


	16. Chapter 16

Kane shot a glare at Maya as Gustus muffled a snort with his hand. "Do you need to be removed from the room, Vie?"

"No, sir. Sorry, sir. My hand slipped. It won't happen again," she replied, her grin splitting her face in two.

He sighed. "Alright. It may have been for the best; it probably would have taken Griffin hours to come up with an appropriate message, and that one wasn't _all_ that horrible."

\---

**Log Entry: Sol 114**

I'm glad I get to talk to my crew before they force me to sit down and hash things out with NASA's hordes of botanists. I know they're going to drag me to hell and back for the shit I've pulled here, literally, and I'd rather a friend than having to deal with that.

If that asshole Kane ever lets any of my messages through. He should be glad I can't moon the Pathfinder camera, because I'm about angry enough at him to try that right now. He rejected a couple that were somewhere along the lines of 'Mars sucks and my tits are tiny and I hate it here', and if he doesn't let this one through I'm seriously considering sending a couple of dick emoticons. Let's see him try and explain _that_ to the president when they go public.

I'm not sure why I'm surprised, though. He nannyed us all through training, don't know why I thought it'd be any different when we're in space.

Oh, got a notification. Gimme a sex- dammit, sec, gimme a _sec_ -

_ARK: There is no weather, Griffin. We are in /space/. It's bad jokes like that that are the reason we ditched you on Mars. Couldn't stand one more shitty pun about *cough* a certain something *cough* being 'out of this world'. How's the Hab? You a real Martian yet, green skin and all? That why they won't give us any pics? - O_

\--

_GRIFFIN: What can I say, Reyes has a great ass. The Hab is much better now that you assholes aren't here to stink it up. Oh yeah, I've gone green, got an antenna too, the whole shebang. Griffin the Martian, at your service. Hope you guys have managed to not kill my plants. Keep an eye on Cygnus especially; she's a high maintenance little guy, needs some extra love and affection to keep blooming. How's everything else over there?_

_'Cygnus?'_ Octavia mouthed to Anya. She tilted her chin towards Lexa, who sat with her head in her hands. Octavia’s eyes widened, and she nodded.

“Commander, what do you want-”

“Don’t tell her,” Lexa interrupted without raising her head, drawing Raven and Lincoln’s confused looks. “Acknowledge the comment but don’t tell her.”

“I second that,” Anya added.

“What is Cygnus?” Lincoln asked.

“A northern constellation,” Anya said, her hand going to her throat. “From the Greek for ‘swan’.”

Lincoln furrowed his brow and met Octavia’s eyes, and she shook her head, mouthing ‘later’ at him as her fingers flew across the keyboard.

\--

_ARK: Cygnus is doing perfectly fine, and the rest are only a little bit wilted because /someone/ missed a watering assignment. Not to name names but it rhymes with craven. We're doing well; the extra work you've stuck us with isn't that bad; Reyes says, ‘it's just botany, which isn't even a real science’. The extra room isn't too shabby, either. But I'm glad you're alive, space cadet. - O et al._

Oh.

I need a moment.

Jeez. Pull it together, Griff.

I've missed her stupid nickname.

I've missed _her_.

I _miss_ her.

Fuck me.

I’m disgusting right now, shit, there’s snot everywhere and I can’t stop laughing, and-

Just, fuck me.

\--

_GRIFFIN: 10-4. Glad to be alive, too. Mars isn’t all that bad. Sometimes I go and just sit outside and stare at the horizon. It’s gorgeous here. The night sky? Amazing, the most stars I’ve seen from the ground in my entire life. Even more than out in the desert. And looking up and knowing I’m seeing the same constellations as everyone on Earth? That makes me feel a lot less alone. Makes me feel a lot closer to home._

Octavia could see Lexa work her jaw out of the corner of her eye, and she reached a hand out and shook Lexa’s knee. She withdrew her hand quickly when Lexa pinned her with a glare, and moved to type a reply. “Anyone else want to add anything right now?”

“No,” came the chorus of murmured replies from behind her, and she chanced another look towards Lexa. “Commander?”

Lexa rubbed absently at the edge of her cast, her face an emotionless mask. “Can I have the room?”

“Commander?”

“That’s an order, Blake.”

Octavia rose from her chair and exchanged a look with Raven. “Commander, frankly, this is an ill-advised course of action.”

“When I want your opinion, Blake,” Lexa growled, eyes cold, “then I’ll ask for it. Until then, give me the room. Don’t make me ask again or there _will_ be consequences.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Octavia spat back before storming towards the door, the rest of the crew trailing along in her wake.

\--

 _ARK: Don’t get too used to it, Griffin. You’re going to get home safe and sound. Don’t you forget that. This is just a temporary staycation. - O_ _  
_ _ARK: The stars make us feel closer to you, too. Stargazing from the observatory module just isn’t the same without you. - crew_

_Lex._

I need to go for a run. Miles falling away beneath the soles of my shoes, the sun beating down on my back. I need to go for a run, because if I don’t then all I can do is sit here and cry.

I wish I had room to run.

I wish I had room to _breathe_.

I need to get the hell out of this rover.

\--

_GRIFFIN: Making up myths to go with constellations isn’t quite as fun when there’s no one there to laugh with me. Can’t wait to do that again, I’ve got a ton of new tales. Ever heard about the one about the girl and her dog?_

Lexa’s chest heaved and she leaned back in her chair, hugging her cast to her stomach.

The last time they’d floated in the module together had been the night before they’d taken the MDV down to the surface, when they'd turned the Ark's lights down and spent the time going back to the basics, pointing out which constellations they would’ve been able to see had they been at home right then, which ones they’d had the best view of growing up.

Being able to do that with Clarke again?

She wiped at her eyes with a small smile.

She’d give anything.

\--

_ARK: Can’t say we have. - crew_

I don’t know if anything else is coming. I’ve been sitting here for almost seven minutes since that came in and nothing else has shown up. That’s not exactly fantastic usage of the minimal communication time we have, but not unexpected from the Commander of few words.

\--

_CAPCOM: Message delivered - Can’t say we have. - crew Message censored - Come home safe to us, space cadet. We need you._

_GRIFFIN: That’s ‘cause I just made it up a couple weeks ago._

_CAPCOM: Communications between Ark and Griffin ceased. The Director requests that Ark refrain from putting additional pressure on Griffin to ensure her survival, as she has enough weighing on her as is._

Lexa poked her head out into the hallway. “Peters, can you come in for a moment?”

Anya lifted her head from Raven’s shoulder and climbed to her feet, following Lexa towards the monitor. “What’s up?”

“They’ve shut comms down.”

“What’d you say?”

"Doesn’t matter. But they're never going to give us unmonitored comms with her, are they?"

Anya shook her head. "It's not even worth wasting our time and asking for it. There's no way we get it."

_ARK: This is Ark Actual, requesting that the Director kindly refrain from censoring my crew._

\--

_CAPCOM: Message delivered - That’s ‘cause I just made it up a couple days ago. Message censored - It’s a nice little allegory about a chick and her rover. Real piece of work, just like me.  Communications between Ares 3.1 and Ark ceased. The Director requests that you refrain from attempting to tell Ark about your activities on the surface._

Fucking _dammit_. These assholes.

I just want one candid conversation with them. That’s all.

Just _one_. I just want them to know that I’m okay, that I’m going to _be_ okay. That I’m fighting really fucking hard to get back to them. I just want them to _know_.

_GRIFFIN: 3==D_

**Log Entry: Sol 115**

NASA keeps asking for updates on every single thing I’m managing here, from the Hab systems to the crops. In addition to that, there’s a whole legion of people breathing down my neck about how I should be dealing with my potatoes. I’m a fucking botanist, for crying out loud.

I’m literally the foremost botanist on this planet. They can fuck off, for all I care.

So NASA’s up my ass 24/7, but I do get email now, which is a plus. Since I last checked, I’ve gotten some rad ones from a couple different groups. The coolest one has to be from my alma mater, Northwestern. They wrote to tell me that if you’re the first to grow crops somewhere, in technicality you’ve ‘colonized’ it. So, woop, I’ve colonized Mars!

‘Botany isn’t a real science’ my ass, Reyes. Suck on that!

The worst I've gotten? Well, Cece Cartwig did a lot of work with us on how to present ourselves in interviews and such, and somehow I ended up being named our mission's Director of Media Relations. Suffice it to say that Cece and I spent a _lot_ of time going over some very dry shit, and got to know each other even better than we already had. She's known me since I was just a kid, and so knows exactly what buttons to push to get me riled up.

I'm guessing that's how I ended up opening a letter from Mike Milbury when I went to check my mail today.

Cece, you're not fucking funny.

When they last updated me on rescue progress, they’d fixed the weight issues revolving around the Ares 4 MDV. We’re going to absolutely gut it once it lands, and then the crew and I are going to head on to the Ares 4 site. They’re even coming up with shit for me to do during the Ares 4 surface ops! I’m going to be the first person to be a part of two Mars missions! Fucking sick!

In other super important news, I've gotten pretty good at juggling; potatoes might not be the perfect shape but I make it work. I mean, it probably helps that the gravity is lower here than on Earth, but it's still technically juggling, dammit! So my time waiting for messages in the rover has proved useful in expanding my skillset. Okay, okay, I haven’t just been juggling. I’ve started teaching myself Morse code, as well. Right now I’ve got all my hopes invested in a forty year old hunk of junk, and NASA and I have come to a mutual agreement that maybe I should have a backup plan in place in case Pathfinder craps out on me.

If that happens, I’m going to be spelling messages out in rocks, and NASA will do their paparazzi thing with the satellites. It’ll be one-way communication, but that’s better than nothing, right? Here’s hoping it doesn’t come to that, though. Knock on non-existent wood. 

**Log Entry: Sol 115 (2)**

When I went back out to the rover this afternoon, I was greeted by a whole ‘nother truckload of messages from NASA. Turns out their panel of botanists have come to an agreement on where they stand with regards to my food supply.

They think I did a good job and deserve a cookie. Or something along those lines. They were a bit demeaning about it in the letter they sent, even as they congratulated me. Assholes.

They’re as sure as I am that my potatoes are going to stretch me to Sol 900, and based on that information, NASA’s padded out the plans for a supply probe. They’d initially thought it was going to be a last ditch attempt to get it here before Sol 400, but with me being such a genius and all, they have 500 sols of breathing room to perfect it.

The transfer window ensuring a shorter trip to Mars isn’t until next year, and after launch it’ll be a good nine months before the probe gets here, with it landing around Sol 856. So I bought us some time, but that still feels a bit by-the-skin-of-my-teeth for me. I’m kind of uneasy about it, but also excited, because it’ll come stocked to the brim with food, as well as an Oxygenator, a Water Reclaimer, and comms systems in triplicate. Guess they don’t want to risk my bad luck with comms systems. Hey guys, I’ve managed to keep Pathfinder intact for about a week, that’s gotta count for something!

**Log Entry: Sol 116**

The second harvest is coming up soon, and I couldn’t be happier. My potatoes kept growing really well when I was off bringing Pathfinder back to the Hab, and now I’ve got a grand total of four hundred tater plants that are on schedule to be ripe in only ten days from now. Huzzah!

Why am I so extremely hyped up about this harvest, you might ask? Because this time around I get to actually eat them. I’m kind of really excited to try Martian-grown potatoes, to tell you the truth. That’s not exactly the most common thing in the world.

Well, okay, maybe it’s common here, on Mars, at this moment in time, but that’s not the _point_.

Any _ways_.

An issue here is going to be potato storage. I can’t just stack them around the Hab; I don’t have the room for that, and I can’t risk any going moldy before I’m able to get to them. What I’m going to have to do is come up with some sort of outside storage solution.

This would be an absolute no-go on Earth, but here I’ve got that near-vacuum to pull the water right out of them and the sub-zero temperatures to freeze what’s left and kill off any bacteria lurking inside. Go me. I’m kinda pretty smart, y’know.

I got a message from Marcus Kane today, as well...

_KANE: Clarke, please lay off the botany team. They’re only trying to help you. I know you’re used to going solo, but you don’t have to anymore. We’re here to help, and you need to start listening to our instructions. The Islanders are middle of their division at the moment, but they’ve been on a hot streak as of late. I’m going to have to deny your request for new music, as the rates of data transfer just aren’t fast enough for music files. Karaoke disco is just going to have to continue. Sorry buddy. And, last of all, NASA’s started setting up a committee to look into the events surrounding Sol 6. They’re going to determine whether there were any mistakes made that could have been avoided. I just wanted to give you a head’s up, as they might have some questions for you later on. Keep us updated on what you’re doing, alright? Have a good day._

_GRIFFIN: I will take no part in that floating witch-hunt. Tell me the names on that committee, so when they blame Commander Callaghan I can not only call them out on it publicly, but track them down and beat the living shit out of them as well._

**Log Entry: Sol 117**

Something’s up with the Water Reclaimer.

It’s made to run through twenty litres a day, since six of us would generate about eighteen litres on the regular. But it’s not, not recently. It’s busting through ten litres, tops.

I can just imagine Blake’s face right now, when she infers that that means I’m generating ten litres of water a day. Settle, O. I’m fine. It’s not me sweating it off or pissing it out. It’s my little potato plants. The humidity in the Hab is higher than it’s supposed to be, so the Water Reclaimer has to work constantly to suck the air dry.

It’s not as big a deal as NASA is making it out to be. Water is water is water. The Hab’s a closed cycle, so if worst comes to worst and the Water Reclaimer breaks down completely, I can box up my pee again and use it to water the plants, and in turn the water will condense on the walls and I’d figure out some way to collect it. Sure, it’s a couple steps closer to going full feral and drinking my own piss, but it’d take a while to get to that point. I’ve still got the stored water from that time I almost blew myself up, so I could do a full spa day, complete with hot tub, and still have a ton left over.

But, you know NASA. They’re freaking the fuck out about this. Apparently the Water Reclaimer is ‘critical to my survival’ or some shit. Like I’d just drop dead the second it stopped working. They’re shitting their pants back on Earth about how this is mission critical and I’m chilling out here, feet up, sipping a margarita.

Fuck, I wish. But you get the point. It’s not that big a deal, guys, I’m sure there’s much more mission critical shit I’m going to have to deal with.

Like readying myself for the potato harvest. But instead, I’m stuck bouncing back and forth between the Hab and the rover so I can test their hypotheses and answer their questions. I fucking hate having text conversations with them; I wish I could teleport back to Earth, smack my degree down on the table in front of them and remind them that I’m a fucking mechanical engineer. I can manage this little problem without twenty sets of eyes looking over my shoulder.

We’ve determined it’s not any of the electronic components, or the instrumentation or refrigeration. I’m positive it’s gonna turn out to be just a stupid little thing like a crack or a hole, and NASA’s gonna deliberate for hours on end before they instruct me to patch it up with duct tape.

I’d expect nothing less.

**Log Entry: Sol 118**

I think the Water Reclaimer is probably plugged up. To fix that, I’ll just need to take it apart and clean it out. Not all that difficult, even for me. I just shot NASA a message to see if they agree.

**Log Entry: Sol 118 (2)**

It’s been five hours. I finally got a response that, in essence, works out to: “Don’t do the thing. You’re going to screw it up and kill yourself.”

So, of course, I did the thing. 

Lexa would probably give me her Death Glare™ for disobeying NASA, especially when they’ve been working at this problem all day to try and help me out, but I’m fucking sick of being told what to do by people who aren’t on the ground with me. If she were here I’d do whatever she told me to, no questions asked, but this group of faceless people back on Earth? Hell no. I was chosen for the Ares mission for a reason, we all were, and part of that reason was how able we were to work independently. We’re supposed to be able to make our own decisions about courses of action, what with the time delay of communication, so why the _hell_ aren’t they letting me do that?

I was super-duper careful about it. I tagged and numbered every piece as I tore it apart, and made sure to organize everything on my lab bench, and the schematics are on every laptop in the Hab. There was no way in hell I was gonna fuck this up, no matter how stupid NASA thinks I am.

It did end up just being a clog in the tubes. The Water Reclaimer wasn’t exactly designed to deal with the mineral water I made when I mixed water into the soil, and the minerals built up in the system and decreased the filtration rate. All I had to do was scrub the tubes clean and reassemble the machine. Problem solved. I’ll have to do the same again in a couple of months, but for now I’m good.

I totally wasn’t on a high horse when I told NASA I’d fixed it on my own. Their reply? Essentially: “You piece of shit.”

**Log Entry: Sol 119**

Nothing more terrifying than waking up with a house made out of canvas shaking around you in the wind.

Takes me back to camping trips out into the desert to stargaze with my dad.

Only a billion times more frightening because, y'know, I'm on Mars.

And just about kicked the bucket in one of these sandstorms a couple of months ago.

It was just a little guy, cat-3 with winds pushing 50kph, and it died down pretty quickly, but I spent a while huddled under my blankets, hands tucked up into the sleeves of my- _her_ sweater with my arms wrapped around me. Even now, my chest is still heaving, my lungs are still burning.

It's the noise that unsettles me the most. I'm used to the hum of machinery, the sound of my breathing and my voice, but other than that it's been silence. So bolting awake to whistling winds? That sure got my heart racing. Holy shit.

Gimme a sec here.

Okay. So. Sandstorm. Come on, Clarke. Protocols for a sandstorm.

Outside equipment, let's go.

Right.

Okay.

Pathfinder. Rover. Solar panels. Pathfinder, rover, solar panels. Pathfinderroversolarpanels-

 _Griffin_.

Okayokayokay.

Pathfinder. A bit uneasy about Pathfinder. If the sandstorm broke it, I'm fucked. I've lost comms with NASA, and all my plans go out the window and I die here and-

 _Clarke_.

Pull it together.

I shouldn't be worried about it. Logically. But logic's out the window right now. I need to know it's okay, I need to know- It should be fine. It's survived on the surface for _decades_ , it should be okay, but-

I'll check it out. Okay, Clarke. I'll check it out. The rover's survived worse, too, it'll be fine. It's just the solar panels. It's just the solar panels.

Sandstorm means, you know, sand blowing around, so it's time for another trek out to clean my power-producing buddies off. That's the first order of business here.

Second on the list? Prepping for harvest season. Farmer Clarke, at your service. I'm about seven days out from pickin' time and I'm still not ready. Gotta build a hoe so I don't break my back doing this work, and I need to come up with some kinda shelter to store the taters in, because a sandstorm plus freely stacked produce would lead to The Great Martian Potato Migration.

Not about that life.

But that's going to have to wait for a later date. Between sweeping off the solar panels and checking the array to ensure it's still whole, I'm not going to have time for it. And, just for sanity's sake, I'm going to have to go over both Pathfinder and the rover at least twice.

Time to get my ass in gear.

\---

Airlock 1 depressurized to 1/90th of an atmosphere as Griffin pulled on her EVA suit and waited for the slow process to reach completion. She'd done this day in and day out, and had gone from being apprehensive and a bit frightened of the process, to awe, to boredom. By now, it was just another chore she had to complete before she was allowed to go outside and play.

The Hab's atmosphere compressed the airlock as the depressurization continued. The Hab canvas stretched for the final time.

The Hab breached on Sol 119.

The tear grew quickly, from an gap barely a millimetre wide to a gash more than a metre in length. The material should have prevented any growth, but with stress after stress from depressurization and repressurization, the carbon fibres were too stretched and weakened to do anything but tear.

The Hab's atmosphere forced itself through the gap, ripping it wider and wider until the airlock was torn free of the Hab. Unopposed, the pressure of the atmosphere against the back of the airlock sent the canvas box into the air as the Hab's air blew outwards.

A shocked Griffin slammed into the door at the back of the airlock, driving all the air from her chest.

The airlock flew forty metres through the air before it hit the ground hard, Griffin's limp body smashing face-first into the front door of the box. Her safety glass faceplate absorbed the blow, cracking into hundred of tiny cubes, and her head ricocheted around inside her helmet. Her vision blurred, and she vomited in her mouth as the box rolled another fifteen metres across the dirt.

Griffin's spacesuit, padded as it was, saved her any lasting skeletal damage. She turned her head woozily, trying to determine what had happened, but to no avail.

She drifted on the edge of consciousness.

The airlock came to a halt, and Griffin's body settled to the side that now did duty as the floor.

She stared blindly up through the holes in her shattered faceplate, blood streaming down her forehead from a wound at her hairline.

She took a deep breath and blinked until her eyes cleared slightly, then glanced around the airlock, trying to place herself. She could see the rippling canvas of the breached Hab through the back window of the airlock, debris spread across the dirt in front of it.

Her heartbeat pounded loud in her ears, but there was something else, too. A faint hissing sound. It took a moment to make sure there wasn't a breach in her suit, and she groaned. Somewhere in the box, there was a gash leaching air off into the Martian atmosphere.

She swallowed hard and listened to the hiss. She reached up to trace a hand across her shattered faceplate. She took a second glance out of the back window.

"You've got to be fucking kidding.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> re-worked and expanded chapter

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 119**

**RECORDING:**

I’m ninety-five percent sure I’m concussed.

In fact, my concussions probably have concussions.

That’s what tends to happen when you get unceremoniously smashed around in an airlock.

Which seems to be what went down.

Fuck me, right?

I’m still in the airlock right now. Out one window I can see the Hab. The blast probably threw it about fifty metres when it tore free. And, yeah, it tore free. So, you know, that’s a bit of an issue as well.

But I’ve got a couple more pressing ones to deal with. Like the low hiss I can only just hear over the ringing in my ears. And the way my safety glass faceplate has shattered into a million tiny squares. Which might account for the shadow I keep noticing in my peripherals that disappears when I look directly at it.

So, let’s have another rundown here. My EVA suit is gone to shit. My airlock is gone to shit. And my Hab? You guessed it. Gone to complete shit. It’s completely collapsed, so even if my EVA suit was whole, I’d still have nothing to go home to.

Gimme a sec, I gotta think this through. And this fucking EVA suit, I can’t- Come on, seals, give me something- I need this _off_ -

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 119 (2)**

**RECORDING:**

I broke- I broke my dad’s watch.

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 119 (3)**

**RECORDING:** **  
**

I promised him I’d keep it safe for when he came back. I promised him I’d keep it safe.

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 119 (4)**

**RECORDING**

It’s hard for me to breathe, but I think that’s more me sending myself towards a panic attack than it is a sign of any extreme loss of oxygen from the airlock. That’s… kind of a relief, I guess?

All in all, this whole saving-my-own-life thing is getting kinda old, but what can you do, right? Shit’s not gonna get done if I just sit around and moan about it.

Alright. Alright, alright. Okay. Things could be worse. I mean, they’re pretty damn shitty right now, but they could be worse, so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

I've been wearing Blake’s EVA suit for all my excursions, since I can't exactly use mine anymore, what with the giant hole in it from where I was skewered. It’s around the right size, and, more importantly for me right now, that means it's still got a fresh patch kit. Whoopie.

Of course, that's worth shit all in terms of that gaping hole in the faceplate of my suit. Can't exactly cover up a 20cm patch of shattered glass with a patch meant to cover 8cm at most. Of course, for most people having a hole in your suit with a diameter larger than 8cm means you're more than likely already dead.

Lucky for me that I'm not most people, hey?

So the patch is essentially useless for my suit, but I might be able to use it on the airlock. Either way, still firmly in the asset pile. Just about the only thing there, too.

See, that hissing noise I heard earlier? Now I'm out of my suit I can get a better listen, and, as far as I can tell, there's a leak in the airlock. Thanks to the smashed faceplate, my suit is helping maintain the environment in here by adding oxygen, but there's only so long that can last.

Nothing like working under pressure.

Or lack thereof. Ha.

First things first, I've gotta find that hole. Easier said than done. I can tell it's somewhere around my feet, and the shadow in my peripheral agrees, but I can't pinpoint it beyond that. Ha. Pinpoint the pinhole. But, yeah, I can hear it, but I can't see it.

Only one thing to do. Bring on the flame!

I know, I know. Ninety percent of my solutions involve setting things on fire. I'm quite possibly a closet pyromaniac. Whatever. We'll deal with that later. Right now I wanna find something I can set ablaze. I know starting a fire in a space no bigger than a cell probably isn't the smartest idea, but I need one. Or, more specifically, I need some smoke.

Unfortunately, I'm stuck with a whole airlock full of things NASA designed to _not_ be flammable. Fortunately, I'm a closet pyromaniac who’s equipped with a tank full of pure oxygen. There's no way on Mars you guys can stop me now.

There's nothing NASA built in here that’s flammable. But they didn't build me. I don't really have time to give you all the details on the birds and the bees, so suffice it to say that the scientists back home haven't figured out a way to breed astronauts with flame-retardant hair.

I've messed up with a straightener often enough that I know my hair is flammable, and the accumulated grease from four months sans shower can't hurt on that front, right? I've got a pretty wicked knife in my toolkit, and a forest of hair on my legs, so all it'll take is a rough shave and I'm good to go on that front.

And what else have we learned we need for fire? Oxygen. But unlike during the shitshow that was me plus hydrazine, I haven’t got anything to supply me with a stream of pure oxygen. Nothing hightech like garbage bags in this airlock. I’m gonna be stuck with cranking up the oxygen percentage in my EVA suit and crossing my fingers that that’ll be enough to shift the percentage of the entire airlock.

All I need now?

Fire.

Not enough current in my EVA suit, and let’s be honest here. That’s probably the last thing I should be cannibalizing right now. How else am I supposed to survive a second out of the airlock? Strike that one off the list straight off the bat.

The airlock would be promising, if only it didn’t run on Hab power. I’d really like to know why NASA neglected to consider that they might end up being separated by about fifty metres. C’mon guys, what happened to anticipating every possibility?

… I say after being stranded on Mars with no backup comms. Man, there are gonna be a _hell_ of a lot of protocols named after me. Just you wait.

Speaking of NASA protocols, it’s written pretty clearly in about fifty different manuals that I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do. You see, I can’t burn plastic, but I can sure as hell build up static charge with it. Touch a metal tool to that and let there be light.

NASA very explicitly forbids this for a pretty good reason.

This is how the Apollo I crew died.

Wish me luck!

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 119 (5)**

**RECORDING:**

You know how I’ve been fertilizing the potatoes with my own waste? Remember how bad I said that smelled? Well, burnt hair is somehow still worse. Though that might just be because I’m trapped in an airlock that reeks of it.

It took me four goes to finally get somewhere with the hole. Attempt number one was foiled by my own breathing pattern. I got a fire going, but the smoke just kinda wisped around. Cue me holding my breath and trying again.

And failing again. But, you know what they say. Try again, fail again, but fail better, right? This time it was the EVA suit that did me in, or more specifically, the smashed faceplate. It still had an oxygen flow going, so I shut ‘er down, held my breath, and quickly went for number three.

Too quickly, as it turned out. I was trying to race against the falling pressure, but I moved too quickly and that was enough to ruin the smoke flow.

Attempt four. Suit off, breath held, slow movement. The smoke drifted down towards my feet and vanished through a thin fracture in the airlock.

Bingo!

I turned the EVA suit back on so it could equalize the pressure as best it could, and bent down to take a look at the little guy. And how little it is. I could easily patch it up with the patch kit, but that’d be a huge waste of resources, seeing as once I crack the kit open I’ve got about 60 seconds to use all of it, and I still haven’t come up with a plan for my faceplate.

I don’t have the time to spend on that while the leak is leaching out my precious N2. I’ve only got 40% of the tank left. I need a solution, and how. One that doesn’t use my patch kit.

That shadow’s back in my peripheral, hovering near my- Tool box, I’ve got my tool box! There’s still duct tape in there, right?

Yes! I’m going to throw some on there and see how this goes. It’s gonna be a tossup on how long it can withstand the pressure.

Okay, it’s on now. Looking pretty good. Suit says the pressure is holding, so I guess the seal’s decent enough. Gonna have a seat and see how this pans out.

 **AUDIO LOG: SOL 119 (6)** **  
** **RECORDING**

It’s been fifteen minutes of trying to cook up a plan for my faceplate, and the tape’s holding firm. Small mercies, eh?

Though, I came up with a Plan B. There’s about two litres in my suit’s knock-off Camelbak, so I totally could have shut off my EVA suit completely and let it freeze over the crack. Would’ve worked out great-

I mean, I know I don’t have to do that, but I _could_ have.

The EVA suit itself isn’t going to be quite that easy to fix, unfortunately. I can tell you that right off the bat. No, I _know_ , I passed my materials course-

The patch kit’s going to be too small-

Well, I don’t see you suggesting anything now, do I?

Oh, that’s all well and good that there’s enough to coat the edge, but what the hell am I supposed to seal it with?

That could work, actually. The fabric is already proven against that pressure differential, and I’ve got a pair of heavy shears in my toolkit.

I know, I know, I know. It’s not like I’m gonna cut a hole right in the chest, jeez.

Okay, that was _one_ time. I was _fourteen_. How do you even-

True, I know it, so you know it-

Fuck me, just give me a second-

I’m an _adult_ , I can swear if I want to.

Holy fucking fuck, just let me _think_ -

I’m an _engineer_ , I should be able to fix this. Come _on_ , Griffin, fucking _think_. Do _something_.

I can _fix this_.

I’m going to… I’m going to cut off my arm!

Oh, shut up, you know I don’t mean it like that. I’ll chop it off at the right elbow, then I can slice it along the seam and get a rectangle that should cover the faceplate. Add resin and it’s solid. And I’m solid.

I was going to get to that! The suit is flexible enough that I can just press the edges together and slap on some resin and I’ll be good to go. Lucky for me there’s enough room in the suit now for me to hold my right arm in against my side. Perks of an all-potato diet. America’s newest fad, served up nice and dry.

Yeah, I might get a bit thin on the resin, but you know JPL doesn’t skimp on anything. It’ll be strong enough no matter how little I have to spare. And it only has to last long enough for me to make it to safety, so-

I know, I _know_ . Well, I _don’t_ know, actually, but that’s a problem for later. The EVA suit comes first, okay? No point thinking about what “safety” consists of if I don’t have a way to get myself there.

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 119 (7)**

**RECORDING**

Destroying my suit went much easier than expected. It would be kind of terrifying thinking about how easy these are to puncture, if it hadn’t happened to me already.

I’m allowed to make jokes like that, okay? I’m sure you would be, if you’d made it. Gotta find some way to cope with trauma, right? Wasn’t that what Gus always told you?

Yeah, I know it’s a bit morbid, but it helps me. Stop distracting me. It was a bit more difficult cleaning out the faceplate, but that was more because I didn’t want to shred the suit or my hands than any actual degree of difficulty to the task. There was a NASA thoroughness to the task that I haven’t had to bring in a while.

Got a bit trickier when I cracked the resin. From seal break to resin set is sixty seconds, so I had to make quick work of spreading it. I scooped it out of the kit with my fingers and slathered it around the faceplate and along the armhole. Then I slapped the suit material onto the helmet and held it down with both hands while I wedged the arm seam under my knees.

I let it sit for a count of 120. Better safe than sorry, right?

Seemed to turn out okay. The seal seemed strong, and let me tell you, the resin set firm as anything.

Which was both a blessing and a curse. Seeing as I glued my hand to the helmet.

Oh, stop fucking laughing. It’s not any funnier to me now than it was ten minutes ago. Just, _shh_. You know I have to log this. Fuck.

Okay, yeah, I know you said maybe I shouldn’t use my bare fingers to spread the resin. Not my greatest moment, but it happened. Thankfully my right hand was still free, because you were absolutely zero help in this. I managed to reach the toolbox and grabbed a screwdriver to chip myself free.

I already feel stupid enough. Can you just lay off me for a second? I know you’re just trying to make me lighten up, but read the room, yeah?

After that whole debacle, I used the arm computer to overpressurize the suit to 1.2 atm. The patch over the faceplate bulged out but seemed to hold pretty steady. The arm seam gave me palpitations for a moment there, but it stayed firm.

Felt pretty good there for a second. Then I got a look at the readouts.

The suit is meant to last eight hours. That comes out to about 250 mL of liquid oxygen. We like to be safe here at NASA, though, so we’re given a full litre in O2 capacity. Then we’ve got nitrogen tanks to hold pressure. When the suit starts leaking, it gets backfilled from the two litres worth of N2 storage.

When I overpressurized the suit, it started absolutely hemorrhaging air. In sixty seconds it took the entire airlock up to 1.2 atm.

Let’s do some mental math here. The airlock is about two metres cubed. The EVA suit takes up half of that when it’s inflated. It took a minute to add 0.2 atm to a single cubic metre. That’s 285g of air. The tanked air is about a gram per cubic centimetre, so I just bled off 285mL.

Altogether, I started off with 3000mL. Used a ton of that maintaining pressure when the airlock was punctured. My breathing turned some of that O2 into CO2, which got caught in the suit filters.

Going by the readouts, I’ve got 410mL of O2, 738mL of N2. About 1150mL going for me.

Divide that by 285mL lost per minute...  

From the second we leave this airlock, I’ve got four minutes.

Fuck me.

I’m done. I’m fucking _done_ , Mars, you hear me? I’m absolutely sick of your shit. You can take your low gravity and your lack of oxygen and your utterly inhospitable landscape and you can shove it up your ass. I’ve _had it_.

I get it, okay? This has all been a fucking game to you, hasn’t it? How fucking crazy can we drive Griffin before she dies, right? Well, fantastic job. Well done. I’m sick and tired and I’m gonna run out of oxygen soon and you know what? I’m going to use the last of it up cursing your fucking existence. I’m going to stand here and I’m going to scream myself raw because this is _not_ what was supposed to happen.

I wasn’t supposed to die here.

Not on this stupid horrible fucking planet.

I wasn’t supposed to die-

 _No._ You don’t get to do that, that disappointed look isn’t _fair_. I’m  _trying_. I’m trying all the time. But everyone’s counting on me, and it’s so hard.

I almost killed myself.

Maybe, but it’s never going to be good enough. I’m gonna let them all down. I’m not gonna make it, Dad. I’m _not_.

Don’t- Just-

I’m done.

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 119 (8)**

**RECORDING**

Okay. O _kay_. I’ve got this. I’ve got an idea.

I’m a genius.

Shut up, Dad.

Here’s how this is going to go. I’m going to make physics my bitch. I’m going to roll the fucking airlock.

Yes, it’s a box, but it’s a _small_ box. That qualifier is what’s going to save me. I’m stuck in what’s essentially a phone box.

Time to be my own Superman.

Super Clarke? Supergirl? No, I got it. The Griffin. _I am the Griffin._

Pfft, what are you talking about? That was a _great_ Christian Bale Batman. I am the Griffin, scourge of the underworld. Fear my awesome power.

If I’m going to roll the box, I’ve got to hit the wall as hard as I can, and I’ve gotta be airborne to do it. Otherwise the forces cancel out and no movement happens. I could draw a free body diagram to really get the point across, but I haven’t got the materials at hand right now.

I’m going to try pushing off one wall and into the other.

…

Okay, it slid a bit, and I feel like it might have slid the opposite direction when I pushed off, so that’s a displacement of approximately zero. Cool. Next idea.

…

I did a plyo push-up to get airborne and, gotta admit, really did feel a bit like Superman. That 0.4g sends you all but flying. While I was in the air, I tried kicking the wall with both feet. Slid again.

What now, what now… Got it.

…

First off, just fuck me up.

Secondly, I got it. Got it _good_. Planted my feet on the ground by the far wall and launched myself diagonally towards the top of the opposite wall. Of course, I’ve got to protect my head, so the intelligent thing to do would be to make contact with my back, right?

I wasn’t really looking for an answer, but yes, you’re right. Mark down in the ‘pros’ column that I managed to exert enough force and leverage to tip the airlock and bring myself an airlock face closer to the Hab. Which, I’m just spitballing here, is about two metres.

Cons of this method?

I have to do this approximately 24 more times.

I’m going to give myself a fucking backache.

**AUDIO LOG: SOL 120**

**RECORDING**

Who has two thumbs and a fucking backache?

This girl.

My doctor-disapproved method of travel is very, _very_ flawed. I had to throw myself at the wall about a two hundred times in order to move about twenty metres and, let me tell you, it was the furthest thing from fun.

Between breaks and stretching and getting ragged on by my dad, not to mention having to talk myself into hitting the wall again and again when all I want to do is pass out, it took me all fucking night.

And I’m still ten metres away from the corpse of the Hab. That’s the closest I can get, on account of the decompression providing the energy needed to spread my gear all over the place. It’s not as though I can just trundle right over it in this box. That’s where my mutilated EVA suit comes in.

I popped the Hab the morning of Sol 199. I’ve been in here a full sol now, and it’s time to get the hell out. A two by two box is a bit cramped for two people, not that it hasn’t been a great time hanging out. Now I’m in my EVA suit, I’ve got my game face on, and I’m ready to rumble.

Bring your worst, Mars.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you missed it, Ch17 has had content added since first posted

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 120**

Houston, I’m alive!

And in the rover, but that’s less exciting and more troubling.

Though, of course, I’m not dead, so it’s not a complete loss despite things going a bit squirrely in there today.

Equalizing the airlock was a breeze, and before I knew it I was back to skipping across this murderous wasteland masquerading as a planet. Skipping’s the fastest way to get around at 0.4g, so I wasn’t just doing it to be quirky or some bullshit like that.

Yes, I know it looks super stupid when you do it in an EVA suit. Thanks for the reminder, really appreciate it.

Skipping through the debris from the depressurization was a bit rough, what with the patch over my visor, but I made it to the Hab without incident.

Okay, fine, I tripped and ate dirt on my second step. You would too if you were navigating by watching a feed from a camera mounted on your arm. See, NASA doesn’t like timesinks, especially when it’s time you could be using to ‘further scientific knowledge blah blah blah’, and turning in an EVA suit to take a quick look at something is one big, huge, _difficult_ waste of time. So instead we got arm-mounted cameras and feeds projected onto the insides of our visors. All I’ve got to do is point at something to be able to see it.

But my visor is a wreck, and the projection ended up pretty distorted. My apologies if I didn’t see the pole lodged in the dirt in front of me until I was flat on my face.

I scrambled back up and got to the Hab right quick, heading straight for where the airlock usually stood. Here’s an equation for you to solve: what do you get when you subtract an airlock from a Hab? A pretty fucking big hole. It works for me today as an easy access point, but fuck me it’s gonna be one hell of a job to fix it.

The moment I got to the hole was coincidentally the moment I realized I hadn’t planned this out very well. I had to go digging under the collapsed canvas, and with my one free hand occupied by holding it up I couldn’t move all that quickly, or see that far.

The areas of the Hab I was able to catch a glimpse of aren’t looking good. Everything heavy still got shifted some metres from where it started, and everything light? It’s like the Hab fell victim to a tornado. Dirt and plants and miscellaneous items everywhere. Cleanup’s gonna be a blast.

Luckily for me, Anya’s suit was right where I’d left it. I was far less lucky in that it was stuck under a table, which in turn was stuck under the entirety of the collapsed Hab canvas. Go me.

The timer in the back of my head was ticking down pretty fucking fast, so it was all I could do to wrestle the helmet free and use my arm camera to find Anya’s patch kit. Those two things are going to have to be enough, because I only just made it to the rover when my ears started popping from the pressure loss.

I collapsed in the rover’s airlock for a moment, sucking down some sweet, sweet air and being hit all at once by the realization I was alive.

 _Am_ alive. And in the rover. Again. Getting a bit of deja vu back to the Pathfinder expedition. At least this time I’ve got company, and the rover doesn’t smell quite as bad as it did then.

On the topic of Pathfinder, this is the rover I hooked up to Pathfinder for comms. NASA, and by extension my crew, are probably worried about me. Well, if NASA even said anything to them. But they’ll have gotten satellite images of the airlock moving back towards the Hab, so theyve got to know I’m alive, at least.

I tried to shoot off a message, but Pathfinder’s down since it’s powered through the Hab. At least, I’m 95% sure that’s the reason, as I caught a glimpse of it when I was running around outside and it was right where I’d left it. I should be able to just power it up when I get the Hab back online.

Some cons at the moment, then, are comms being down, my suit still only having a single arm, and the Hab being a disaster zone. Oh, and my dead dad’s been hanging around but, I mean, that’s probably a normal Mars occurrence. Nothing to worry about.

On the other hand, I’ve got myself a helmet with an intact visor, a patch kit to double up on the arm seal, and a place to crash, and I’m probably not going to die in the next eight hours, so who’s the winner here, right?

Me. I am, because after over twenty-four hours awake and stressed beyond belief, I get to pass the fuck out. Night night, sleep tight, don’t let the depressurization bugs bite.

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 121**

The only place to sleep in a rover is one of the seats up front, and all I had was a mylar emergency blanket to bury myself in, so it was a surprise to wake up and realize I’d actually had a really good sleep. Guess that’s what a day of heavy stress and physical labour will do to you.

I can’t believe NASA still supplies those space blankets on missions. They’re absolute crap. It’s like sleeping in a roll of aluminum foil. Tear just as easily, too.

Speaking of tears, first thing I did after waking up was put another layer of resin on the hole where my suit arm used to be. Whereas last time I had to skimp on it because I needed to patch my helmet as well, this time I was able to use all of it for its intended purpose. Needless to say, but I’ll still say it, no air leakage this time.

Most of my O2 bled off yesterday, but there was still a half-hour in my tank. It would’ve lasted about five seconds more yesterday, just on account of the pressure differential, but now I can maintain the pressure the limiting factor is my oxygen use, and the human body doesn’t actually need that much oxygen. Go figure.

With half an hour on the clock and a fully-pressurized suit, I could finally use the rover’s EVA tank refill system without bleeding off O2 faster than I was filling it. See, the tank-refill is an emergency system, since NASA expected us to go out in the rover with full EVA tanks and come back with air left in ‘em. Things like my expedition to find Pathfinder were never really standard operating procedure.

But they did set up refill hoses on the exterior of the rover, just in case things went to shit on a trip. The thought process must have been that there was limited indoor space for that kind of setup, and that most emergencies requiring a refill would occur outside.

That made the refill useless to me yesterday, thanks to the bleed off, but with the new patch all setup and ready today it was easy-peezy. I took an extra couple minutes to make sure the seal held, and then headed back to the Hab.

I only had one goal today: increasing the number of arms on my suit. Having only one available hand wasn’t effective for most things I wanted to get done around here, let’s be honest with ourselves.

I think I’ve lost enough weight here as is, without losing a whole arm on top of that. Your jokes are still the worst, at least that hasn’t changed.

I picked my way back over to the Hab, able this time to get a better look at the exterior damage. Didn’t look great, but that’s a problem for tomorrow. Without a ticking timebomb for an air tank, I was able to use science (levers!) to get Anya’s suit out from under the table. I pulled it back out to the rover and ran a full diagnostic scan on it. If the last two days have taught me anything, it’s that you can never be too careful.

It may have taken me two trips and a metric shitton of stress, but I’ve got a fully-functional suit now.

Tomorrow, I’m going to wear it to go and fix the Hab.

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 122**

I woke up today without Dad sitting in the driver’s seat. On the topic of a possible traumatic brain injury, probably a good sign, but it still hit me like a punch to the gut. The last few sols have sucked, no doubt about that, but having him here by my side? Seeing him again, well, _believing_ I was seeing him again? That made it slightly more bearable.

I sat in the cab for a moment before I went on EVA, just to catch the last little energy he’d left. Next on the list was gathering enough rocks to leave a morse code message for my overseers. Hopefully NASA’s satisfied with “OK”, because that’s all the rocks I had time for today.

The Hab was the more pressing matter. I took another foray under the loose canvas, this time to get a look at the extent of damage to the internal structure. I’ve got to get the Hab up and running again before I can focus on anything else; if I’m left to work out of the rovers, this whole thing won’t last long.

Normally, the Hab’s just a giant bubble. There’s some internal scaffolding, but we rely heavily on the internal pressure to maintain structural integrity. Without air pressure, the whole thing just dropped. None of the flexible support poles seem to be broken or otherwise compromised, which is a positive. Means all I’m going to have to do is snap them back together like a K’NEX set. Solid.

The hole the airlock left behind is pretty fucking huge, but I think I can manage it. There’s a backup supply of spare canvas and strips to seal it, which will be a labour-intensive job but I’ll be able to get it done soon. Once the canvas and the skeleton are whole, then I’ll reinflate the Hab and work to get the power up and running. Next up will be to get Pathfinder online again so I can work with NASA to fix up the rest of the equipment, and so I can get some conversations in.

None of that’s insurmountable. I’ve got my action plans in order for it, so I’m good to go on those fronts, but I’ve got a different, much more daunting problem.

My farm is dead.

Most of my carefully-collected water boiled off when exposed to the Martian atmosphere, and the majority of the bacteria likely died with the temperature drop. The crops in the pop-tents didn’t fare any better, as they were connected directly to the Hab for air supply and temperature.

All potato life on Mars has gone extinct in one fell swoop. As have earthworms and soil bacteria. Rest in peace, my little friends. Hope I don’t join you.

We had a _plan_ , but then, no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Who said that? Patton? Wonder how he’d do on Mars… Probably make first contact with an alien species for the sole purpose of slapping them, let’s be real here. I was supposed to be able to feed myself until Sol 900, and get a supply probe on Sol 856 that’d restock me. That plan is gone to shit now, and not the fertilizer kind.

Wait, no, it wasn’t Patton. Some German in the 1800s maybe? This was much easier when Google was a few keystrokes away.

Okay. I’ve still got all my ration packs. I’ve still got the initial crop of potatoes, and just because the ones in the ground right now are dead doesn’t mean they’re not still food. I was planning on doing a harvest soon, anyways. Could’ve picked a worse time to blow the Hab up, I guess?

The rations will get me to Sol 400. Won’t know for sure on the potato front until I actually dig them up, but estimates put me at 400 plants with 5 potatoes each, or 2000 potatoes. 150 calories each, so I’ll need to eat 10 a sol to survive. That gets me another 200 sols. 400 plus 200? Sol 600.

I’m gonna be long dead by Sol 856.

**LOG ENTRY: SOL 122 (2)**

I sat out to watch Earth set tonight.

Fact of the day. In 7.5 billion years, Earth and Mars will become tidally locked. Bases on both planets will be able to maintain constant contact with each other. No more Earth-rise and Earth-set.

Of course, in 5 billion years the Sun will have exited main sequence and begun its evolution, so by the time that kind of contact would have been possible, it’s more than likely the Sun would have already expanded into a red giant and swallowed the inner planets.

It’s a comforting thought, in a morbid sort of way. No matter what humanity achieves or destroys, no matter whether we turn the Earth into a paradise or a wasteland, the majority of eventualities still boil down to ‘the Sun will have expanded into a red giant and swallowed everything by then’.

On a scale that size, my death is of no consequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come visit me over on tumblr at hedahawkeye, pinky promise I won't delete again #DeleteYourBlog2K16


	19. Chapter 19

[08:17] GRIFFIN: Testing. Testing. Is this thing on?

[08:31] JPL: Received! Great to hear from you, Griffin, you had us going for a while there. We really appreciated the Morse code message, thanks for that. We're seeing a complete detachment of Airlock 1 from the main Hab structure over here. Can you confirm? What's the status on the ground?

[08:46] GRIFFIN: 'Detachment' is a bit of a misnomer. Damn near shot me halfway across the planet. Some minor lacerations, but vitals seem okay. I'm down another EVA suit, but I've got pressure back in the Hab, so a net gain from where I was a day ago. Air tanks are intact, but further farming's a no-go; everything froze to death. Power's up and running and I've got the potatoes stored outside. 1841 at last count. 184 days, and with the ration packs I've got left I'm sitting at an extreme starvation initiation of Sol 584.

[09:05] JPL: We'd expected as much. Got some plans in the works that will hopefully solve the food issue. You've got air and power, but how are the other systems?

[09:18] GRIFFIN: Water tanks, rover, solar panels, Pathfinder all okay. I'll run a diagnostics check on the rest of the Hab systems while I wait to hear back from you… Uh, who am I talking to, anyway?

[09:31] JPL: Marcus Kane, from Houston via Pasadena relays. I'll be your man on the ground from here on out, Clarke. Run diagnostics on the oxygenator and water reclaimer first, they're of primary importance.

[09:44] GRIFFIN: Oh, are they? I had _no_ idea. Oxygenator's good to go, but Water Reclaimer's still offline. Probably froze up, burst a pipe or something. Computer's running fine, too. You maybe got an idea why I'm in this mess?

[09:57] JPL: Working theory is canvas fatigue from pressure cycling the airlock. Alternate between the other two airlocks from now on. We'll be sending over a checklist for a canvas inspection as well.

[10:09] GRIFFIN: Do I need an airlock buddy to hold my hand while I go outside, too? Don't think I'll be able to find one here. Gimme a shout if you figure out how to feed me.

[10:22] JPL: Will do.

\---

Indra leaned back in her chair. "We're at Sol 122. Griffin runs out of food on Sol 584. That gives us 462 sols, or 475 days, to build, inspect, launch, and land a probe on Mars.

The tension in the room was palpable.

"Given the planetary windows, 414 of those days will be spent in transit. Mounting and inspection will take another 13. This probe needs to be done and at the launchpad in 48 days."

A whispered "Christ" came from the back of the room, standing out amongst the grumbles passed between the attendees.

"We're focusing on food. Nothing fragile. Say goodbye to any thoughts we had about comm systems and crap like that. We've got not time to work out powered-descent systems, so this won't be our typical Ares supply lander. It's going to have to be a tumbler, which cuts out everything fragile we had on our lists."

"Who's giving up their booster?" the reentry manager asked.

"The Arkadia 3 Saturn probe," Indra replied. "They were set to launch last month, but NASA's scrapped that to give us the booster."

"I'm sure they were jazzed about that."

"I bet they were," Indra replied, "but it's the only booster big enough. Which is another thing. This is our one and only attempt. Either we make this work, or Clarke Griffin dies. It's that simple."

She paused and scanned the room, letting the gravity of the situation sink in.

"You're probably wondering whether there are _any_ positive in this," she continued. "We can co-opt anything that's already been built for the Ares 4 presupplies. That's going to save us time. All we're sending is food, which is going to be edible no matter what shape it's in when it lands. Calories are calories.

"Griffin's managed to increase her travel radius, so we don't have to be precise. She's got a range of a couple hundred kilometres. All we need is to land it close enough that she can reach it. Despite the time constraints, this really is just a tumble-land presupply. We've done a hundred of these. We just need to do this one a bit more quickly. Let's get to it."

\---

[08:01] JPL: We've got a supply mission in the works. Should be able to get it to you before you starve, but it's going to be a close one. I know you'd have liked backup machinery, but it's going to be a unpowered landing so all we'll be able to hook you up with is food.

[08:15] GRIFFIN: What a bummer, 'all' you can send the starving girl is food. That's got me pretty excited. I've got all the Hab systems working again, so backups aren't critical right now anyways. Water Reclaimer's treating me fine now I've swapped out some hoses that burst because of ice. I've got 620L of water left, which means I lost 280L, but as long as the Water Reclaimer keeps working that should be plenty for me.

[08:32] JPL: Glad to hear it. Keep us up to date on any further issues that may arise. FYI, we've named the probe 'Iris' after the Greek goddess who traveled at the speed of wind through the heavens. She's also the goddess of rainbows.

[08:48] GRIFFIN: Uh

[08:49] GRIFFIN: Not to be bi, but that's pretty gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short, my life is a mess, [insert stereotypical excuse here]


End file.
